Yugoslavia
by RandomPerson164
Summary: The time is World War 2. While on their way to help defend Greece from the Axis Powers, England and America find an old storehouse full of Axis supplies, and America gets the idea to raid it. England was originally against America's plan. But in the end, it may have been one of the best decisions of his life.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Welcome to my first (totally non-canon) Hetalia fanfiction! I learned about Hetalia from a couple of my friends who would not stop talking about it when they were around me. Those two are the ones who I need to thank; they refer to themselves as Russia and Prussia (no, they are not twins), and after I learned about the strange wonderfulness that is Hetalia, I was inspired to become Yugoslavia. Thanks guys! You two are awesome people. (And by the way, I have only watched the first 2 seasons – as of now I should be past episode 50 – so I don't know everything about Hetalia. Please don't start hating on me if I mess something up.)**

**Yugoslavia – a Hetalia Fanfiction**

_Even I can not understand the horrors in which I have narrowly escaped._

_Who am I? Well, I could be a great many people. I could be any single one of the people who have been taken away from their homeland, or have been trapped in a place in which they can not escape from, or have been hurt by a force you can not control. I am the personification of every man, woman, and child who has ever walked this earth and had to suffer through the hardships of war._

_But for now, you can just call me Ćerima Zivkovic._

_As of now, I am a prisoner of war somewhere within German territory, but I do not know exactly where. It is hard being a prisoner of war, especially when you have been captured by someone as fierce as Germany and have no one to rescue you. You see, I am from the large but often ignored nation of Yugoslavia, a wonderful country nestled between Italy and Greece on the Adriatic Sea. With our neutral status, we don't often find the need to fight against anyone, even people within our own country. This war – World War II, as I have heard it being called – changed all of that. It was the first week of April when it had all started. I was taking a holiday in a small border town at the time, and I had caught word of Germany walking around Yugoslavia's northern border, scanning the countryside as if spying out a potential new territory. But before anyone said anything to him, he simply walked away, without saying a word. The next day I saw him with my own eyes – walking slowly past, staring right at me, giving me a glare so sharp that I flinched a little at the sight of it. I do not understand why he had done that, since I have no recollection of a disagreement or anything like it between our countries. Just like the day before, however, he turned on his heel and walked away to the north, disappearing over a nearby ridge. I had decided to return the day after that, on the 6th of April, to see if he would come again._

_That was my bad decision._

_If I had left my curiosity behind me, I would not have gotten myself into so much trouble. The 6th of April was the day when Germany decided to invade – only three days into my holiday. I still don't know exactly how he did it; all I remember was seeing him followed by an uncountable number of German soldiers, and maybe a few Italian and Japanese ones as well. The next thing I know they were swarming the streets of the quaint little town, barging into homes and shops, wreaking havoc on the peaceful townspeople. Somehow I was picked out of the crowd and captured; the only thing I could do was go with the soldiers and pray that I would not get hurt too badly. I looked back at the town before they took me away, and I saw several soldiers replacing our beautiful Yugoslav tricolor with their own f_

-x-

Ćerima suddenly stopped writing and stared at the scrap of paper and the old fountain pen in her hand. "You can't stop now," she quietly scolded it, shaking the black cylinder slightly to pull any remaining ink out of the tip. "I'm in the middle of a sentence! I can't afford for you to stop!" Despite her words, the pen refused to let go of any more of its ink and sat idly while she scratched at the paper before being set on the ground with a sigh. "You are pointless," she whispered, making one last comment to the pen before tossing it bitterly behind her and looking up from her work.

She was sitting on the dirty wooden floor of a large, old house somewhere inside of Germany, where she had been eating, sleeping, and worrying for the past three days – mostly worrying. Glancing around at the plain brick walls and the sheetless mattress laying on the floor beside her, she didn't really know where she was, how she had gotten there, or even how long it had been since she had last seen the sun. If she was back at her home, she would have looked out the window, and then gone to a nearby restaurant for supper, lunch, or breakfast, depending on what time it was. But there were no windows in this tiny room in this huge house, and the only exit – the solid wooden door at the end of the corridor outside of the room – was securely locked.

Letting out another sigh of despair, Ćerima sat up on the edge of the mattress, wincing at the sound of old springs creaking underneath her. She took another look at the paper scrap in her hands, then crushed it, stuffing the small paper ball into the pocket of her jacket. _…No_, she thought to herself. _This is not _my_ jacket. This is _a_ jacket._ She removed the article of clothing from around her shoulders and held it in front of her. It was a German military jacket, an olive-green one with shoulder marks on the sleeves and a row of matching buttons running down the front, which she had managed to find within a crate in one of the neighboring rooms to her own, along with other clothes that all seemed a size to large for her. They had to do for the time being, though. Even though she was a prisoner of war, she didn't have the option to let her captors feed or clothe her – she was alone once again, but this time she didn't like it.

She lay back against the hard metal spring of the mattress and stared up at the cobweb-ridden ceiling with tired blue-green eyes. Her hair, once tied back in a simple braid, was coming loose and hung over her eyes in dirty dark blonde wisps. Her stomach growled in sorrow, matching her current mood. _No one is coming_, she concluded pessimistically, turning over so that her shoulder pressed into the mattress and she faced one of the walls. _No one will know what happened. No one will know where I am, or who I am, or what had happened to me. I will just be gone, a single insignificant person lost off of the face of the earth._ Her eyelids suddenly grew heavy, despite the cold of what she presumed was night leaking in through the bricks in the walls. She drifted off to a single thought.

_I'm gone._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Yes, there is a chapter two. :) Come on, I wouldn't leave you with a cliffhanger like that, would I?**

**Chapter Two**

"Aww, come on! Do we really have to march past Germany in the _rain_?"

It was dusk on the German warfront, and an eerie silence same with a thick somber rainstorm that blocked what little light the full moon had to shed. An intense wind sent the rain pounding down on a large group of battle-scarred men, who trudged tiredly through the countryside in search of a place to take shelter.

Two particularly odd men stood at the front of the battalion. One had dusty blonde hair with a single strand poking up against the pull of gravity, while the other was a blonde with ridiculously large eyebrows and a chillingly serious green gaze. They were the leaders of the group, and tried to set an example for the others by ignoring the water in their hair and the lack of feeling in their toes. …Well, one of them was; the dusty-haired one had his hands stuffed in his pockets and was complaining off and on about the less-than-perfect conditions. "Seriously," the complainer continued, wiping water droplets off of his glasses, "this sucks!"

His companion kept his eyes forward and didn't dare to look at him, silently reminding himself of what he should have been doing. "Shut up, America. If we're going to get to Greece in time to help him, then we're going to have to cover plenty of ground. Besides, we can't risk Germany seeing us in the daylight, or else he'll obviously start attacking us."

America scoffed and stared up at the darkening clouds. "Psh, he's not even here, England! Germany is in Albania or something. Besides, I'm tired. I could really use a burger right now… Hey look, a house!" Finding a sudden burst of speed, he sped forward, narrowly avoiding running England over.

"Hey, what are you…" England looked up from the map that he was carrying and saw it. Just like America had said, it was a house, but it was so much more than that. It was a mansion, placed on the edge of a fenced-in tract of countryside that stretched out several acres in nearly every direction. It seemed to be hundreds of years old with intricate carvings crawling up the stonework and a once-beautiful garden of flowering plants rimming the outer walls. But it obviously hadn't been touched for years.

America stood at one of the half-shattered windows on the side like a child at a toy store, poking back the moth-eaten curtains that blocked his view of the room inside. "England, dude! Think this is some kind of Axis warehouse or something!"

England, with a pointed glare at America for being so loud, took up a place beside his ally and peered through the window. "What would make you say that?"

America pointed into the darkness. Against one of the room's walls was a stack of open crates, spilling out fabric bundles and firearms onto the ground. A crude white flag made from a stick and a handkerchief sat within the shadow of the crates. "Lucky guess?"

Leaning forward against the spiked glass remains of the window pane, England could barely make out a few crates lining the opposite wall, collecting dust, two of them bearing several white Japanese characters painted in chipping paint on the top. "Why would the Axis leave so many valuable supplies here, of all places…?"

"Dude, we should totally get in there and see what stuff they've got!" America was giddier than a schoolgirl on steroids, and stood straight up to emphasize his superiority in the situation. "Alright, since I'm the hero and all, I'll raid the top levels! You can take the basement and stuff, since you're both dark and creepy."

"Hey, wait a –"

"Good, then it's settled!" America smiled stupidly, dashing off to make his way around to the front of the house. After a few seconds he chuckled nervously. "…Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a crowbar by any chance, would you?"

Wordlessly, England followed him to the front door and reached into the pack resting on his shoulders, pulling out a small metal case containing a few tiny iron rods. He kneeled down next to the doorknob, and within moments the door swung open, its rusty hinges creaking from disuse. He smirked and stepped back to admire his handiwork. "I'm SAS," he reminded him smugly. "When it comes to –"

"Yeah, yeah." America pushed past England, almost accidentally crushing him against the door, and ran for the rickety staircase that stood before him and spiraled upward into the dark depths of the house. "Onward," he cried dramatically, mostly to himself, "to adventure!"

Turning away from the door and skirting the house's wall as he looked for the cellar, England shook his head in self-pity. _Why do I always have to get stuck with America? The bloody __git__ doesn't even know what he's doing._ Prying open the house's cellar doors was easy once he kicked through the corroded lock, and he took a lantern from his pack and lit it before proceeding down the steps into the darkness.

There was another door at the end of the steps.

"Bloody hell…" England groaned and placed the lamp down on the ground, examining the door more closely. This one looked more secure – and surprisingly newer – than the house's front door. When tapped, it emitted the sharp _cling_ of a metal. He shook his head sarcastically. _Good job only reinforcing one door, Germany_. In barely a minute he was past it, thanks to his trusty lock pick, and he strolled into the darkened corridor before him.

The cellar was a far cry from impressive. It looked like the inside of an abandoned office building, with several rotting doors lining the walls and a torn, stained carpet pressing against England's feet. The smell of damp earth wove itself into the musty air, accompanying the already overpowering scents of dust and mold. Through several of the doors, he could see a few of the supplies left behind by his enemies: old tarps, empty ammunition cases, crates stripped of their wood. _Nothing useful at all. I wonder if America has found anything yet…_ He heard the sounds of troops above him setting up camp for the night, and for a moment he was temped to return to the surface. _Since there probably isn't anything of any importance down here, I might as well…_ Just as he was turning around to retrace his steps, he paused, staring straight at one of the closed doors near the corridor's end. It was just like any of the other doors, except it wasn't yet damaged or hanging off of its hinges. Somehow it attracted his attention like a magnet. _But why…?_

"Hi there, England!"

England saw a green floating thing out of the corner of his eye in the direction that the voice came from. "Oh, Flying Mint Bunny. How long have you been there?"

"I just got here." Flying Mint Bunny pressed against his face so that his gaze matched England's. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," England replied with a shake of the head. "Something just seems… it seems…" He took his time in finding a word to describe the strange sensation that the door gave him, but it still wouldn't come.

"…Amiss?" Flying Mint Bunny supplied, floating back to his friend's shoulder to get out of his way.

England, finally breaking his eyes away from the plain wooden exterior of the door, nodded once. "Yes, I suppose so."

"We should investigate!" Flying Mint Bunny flew circles around England's head before landing on top of it. "Maybe there's something cool in there!"

"You're starting to sound more like America," England remarked, then set his eyes on the door's tarnished bronze knob. With a reluctant curiosity he wrapped his hand around it, turned it gently, and pushed his way into the room beyond.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Merry Christmas, guys! Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, and all of that good stuff! (And a Happy No-pocolypse, too!)**

**Chapter Three**

The room was roughly the size of a large closet, with a few stray papers and weapon parts piled in the corner and a single crate pulled into the middle of the floor. Everything was covered in a layer of dirt and grime from disuse, and water from the rainfall on the surface fell in streams down the brick wall, dripping into puddles beneath England's feet. A sudden chill swept through the room, sending a shiver down his spine. But this wasn't what he noticed. What he noticed was the girl.

She was lying down on a bare mattress on the ground, asleep, her arms folded under her head for support. She was facing the wall, so he could not see her face, but he could tell that she was wearing a dirty German military uniform a few sizes to big for her – the jacket was the only thing separating her from the frigid April air. Her hair was a few shades darker than his own, the copper undertones gleaming with grease from not being washed in some time. Her breathing was unstable, and she trembled slightly, though whether from the cold or a bad dream, he didn't know.

"Who's that?" Flying Mint Bunny asked, returning to his previous post above England's shoulder and looking down. "She looks familiar somehow."

England faintly shook his head, barely acknowledging his friend's comment. "I don't know…" He kneeled down beside the mattress to get a closer look at the girl and heard a sharp _crack_ beneath his foot. He froze, an immediate silence hanging in the air as he slowly lifted his foot to examine any damage. A black fountain pen sat in shards on the ground, one last spurt of ink flowing out from its decapitated metal nib.

He looked up once again and saw that the girl had become silent, her breathing inaudible, her previous trembling gone without a trace. He saw her head slowly turn toward him, her hair shifting out of the way to provide a better view of her face. He saw her eyes first: a pair of blue-green orbs that projected her stone-cold fear better than any words that could have described it. Her cheeks were hollow from hunger, the unnaturally pale skin sunken painfully into her dirt-stained cheekbones. Despite this, she appeared surprisingly attractive for someone surrounded by the conditions that she was in. The emotion in her eyes changed in a spit second, from fear, to relief, to utter confusion.

"…You… you are not Germany," she murmured with a faint Eastern European accent. Her voice was soft, but gravelly, as if it had not been used in quite some time. It almost surprised England to even hear her speak.

"What? No! I'm England, not Germany!" England quieted himself after this outburst, silently wondering what sort of things that this girl had gone through that would make her think that he was Germany. _How would she even know who Germany was?_ "Who are you? Why are you here?"

The girl looked sullenly down at the ground, at the fountain pen that he had previously stepped on. She seemed reluctant to speak, and England was about to apologize when she finally said something. "…My name is Ćerima… Ćerima Zivkovic. I was…brought here by Germany, when he invaded my country. I do not know how long ago it was… I have lost count of the days."

"But Germany's in Greece right now," England remarked, resting his hand on the floor beside his foot to balance himself. "If he's there, then why are you here?"

"They forgot about me." Ćerima sighed apprehensively and lifted her head from the mattress, leaning against her elbows for support. "It has always been a problem with me – being forgotten and having no one bother to care about me."

"That's terrible," England said sympathetically. He started thinking about others that he knew with that problem, but for whatever reason, he started thinking about America. He decided to change the subject while he could. "What day was it when Germany captured you, Ćerima?"

Ćerima had to think for a moment to answer, her hand slipping into her jacket and grasping the paper wad buried at the bottom. She held it tightly, and the date came back to her. "It was… the sixth of April."

"The sixth of April?" England's eyes widened with surprise. "That was eleven days ago!"

"Eleven days?" Ćerima sat up abruptly, determination slipping into her voice. "I have to get back! I –" Just as quickly as the valor had come, it was replaced with an expression of sickliness, and with the world spinning around her she weakly fell forward… right into England's arms. He would have flinched back, had he not managed to catch her first.

"I… I am sorry," she whispered, her words turning soft and cold as they were before and her face drained of color. She began to tremble once again. "…I have not had food… or water… in days. I –"

Cutting her sentence short, England shushed her politely and helped her into a sitting position. "You need to save your strength. Stay here. I'll be back." With that, he stood and made his way back down the corridor to the cellar doors, grabbing a tarp out of one of the rooms as he passed it. He climbed up them in a heartbeat and swung around to the front of the house. "America!"

It took a moment for America to poke his head above the banister of the staircase and acknowledge England's presence. His arms were full of assorted papers and weaponry. "Yo, check it out, dude! There's a ton of totally cool stuff up here!"

"Yeah, yeah." England brushed off America's comment and cut to the chase. "Look, I need you to take over for me for a little while. Take care of the troops."

"What? You mean _your_ troops?" America stared down at him in the confused yet arrogant way that only America could successfully achieve, a stupid grin across his face. "No way! …Why?"

"Uh, no reason," England retorted in a failed attempt to sound nonchalant, and readjusted the tarp over his shoulder. "Just don't get yourself killed, alright? I need to go and take care of something."

"Oh. Okay." For a nanosecond America was totally serious, a look of affirmation in his eyes. But then he was back to his old, annoying, hero-obsessed self. "Dude, what's with the tarp? You can't be pretending to be Santa! Seriously, it's not even December yet!"

America's final words faded behind him as England plodded back to the cellar, kneeling down again next to the ailing Ćerima. He wrapped the tarp around her like a blanket and helped her to her feet. She coughed feebly as they hiked to the surface (well, it was more England carrying her there) and took shelter in the recently-constructed tent nearest to the house.

"How are you feeling?" England asked her gently, after ordering an American soldier to bring some food and water.

Ćerima stared up at the tent's ceiling from her position on the ground, her gaze distant. "Nauseous. Dizzy," she replied, closing her eyes to suppress the vertigo. "…England? I need… I need you to do something for me."

"Anything." England cursed to himself for sounding so compliant, but didn't let it show. "What do you need?"

"…Call Cousin Russia for me," she breathed, turning to look back at England. "Tell him… that I have not… been well. He… he should understand."

England sat in silence. _Call _Russia_? What sort of a person would willingly want to call that creepy, vodka-loving – _Then he stopped. _She said 'cousin.' Is it really possible that she's…?_ "…Uh, Ćerima? I sound strange asking this… but who are you? Who are you, really?"

She closed her eyes again, the corner of her mouth twitching up in a gentle smile. "I… I am Yugoslavia."

_Yugoslavia._ England was shocked that he had not noticed her before. She had been at every World Meeting for quite some time now, and yet she never seemed to be noticed by anyone. _How could I have been so careless? Surely I should have noticed her at least once by now!_ He turned around acknowledge the soldier who brought the food, aiming his words at Ćerima. "Why would Germany do such a thing to you? …Aren't you neutral?"

When he looked back, her eyes were closed, her muscles loose, her breathing subdued. The only remnant of their brief conversation was the tiny smile that remained on her lips.


	4. History Moment! (also known as Ch 4)

**Chapter Four**

_Hi there, English-speaking members of the Hetalia fandom! Since this is my fanfiction and I gave the usual English dub narrator a hundred bucks to get the heck out of here, I'll be your narrator for today. You can call me RP164, or RP, but I'd kinda prefer Random-san, just to fit in with the whole anime thing. …Wait, where was I? Oh yeah._

_Well, since this is Hetalia, I might as well give a little history lesson to prove to you that I'm not totally making up this story. In 1941, only about two years into World War Two, the Axis powers were beating the Allies and taking over several countries throughout Europe. At that point, Germany was turning his attention toward the Balkan Peninsula after Italy's failed attempt to invade Greece in 1940. In order to get to Greece and finish the job that his comrade had barely started, Germany had to move through Yugoslavia. Then he decided, "Heck, why don't I just take over this Yugoslavia place too?"_

_The Invasion of Yugoslavia (aka Operation 25) officially began on April 6__th__, 1941, as part of a set of tactics that the Nazi Germans called the Balkans Campaign. Despite the fact that such a big country was being attacked by an even bigger enemy, the Allies didn't do a thing and pretty much watched Yugoslavia get pounded into the dust. Nice people, huh? After only eleven days of fighting, the Yugoslav forces surrendered, and afterward their country was split up and shared between Germany, Italy, and Hungary. Oddly enough, Yugoslavia was never liberated by any of the Allies and pretty much stayed under Axis rule until 1944, when a guy named __Josip Broz Tito became the leader and changed the country's name from the Kingdom of Yugoslavia to the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. So much for being neutral._

_And now, Yugoslavia doesn't even exist anymore! Yeah, I'm serious, people. Google it. _


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: You know what's crazy? This story has had only four chapters (well, now it's five…and chapter four is barely anything so it doesn't really count…) and it already has over 105 views! That's nearly 2 times the number of views one of my other fanfics, **_**Murder in Marseille**_**, has! (**_**MiM**_** is a Tintin fanfic. If you think that the word "Tintin" doesn't exist, then don't read it.) That certainly says something about the Hetalia fandom… Anyway, thanks for the views, thanks in advance for the reviews (HINT HINT), and thanks for not rejecting my terribly-created OC! :)**

**Chapter Five**

_The night was a deathly one, with snow falling in thick sheets onto the craggy mountains above and temperatures hovering around -10 degrees Celsius. A lone child stood atop a particularly flat cliff high above the ground, silhouetted in black against the background of gray and white. She watched the snow fall into the valley before her with a watery blue-green gaze, a few individual flakes sticking to the copper-tinted blonde hair that poked out from beneath her cloak's black hood. She couldn't have looked older than ten, but there was a raw, silent determination in her eyes that spoke of an unnatural maturity that had no doubt been brought on by her surprisingly important position. Her world was at peace for the time being, but she knew what was coming. _They_ were. She could almost see them now, hiding beyond the peaks of the Šars, lying in wait for their future victims to make the first move. It was inevitable for them to attack her country next; they had already gotten to the others abound them. Why not conquer here as well? _

_In reality, she should have been scared, fearing for her life and the lives of those she was representing. Being only a child, cowardice was what she expected of herself. But something in her mind rejected the idea. On the contrary; she couldn't explain it, but she felt suspiciously pleased. Even though she didn't know it for sure, she had the strangest feeling that everything was going to be okay in the end. _No matter what happens_, she promised herself, _I am going to be okay. Some day, I will become a stronger nation, and I will not have to worry about this sort of thing any mor_e._

"_Osmanlije su brzo napreduje," said a familiar voice behind her. It was that of a young man at the age of twenty-five, the captain of her nation's tiny military forces. He spoke rapidly, an edge of fear and confusion slipping into his fast-paced words. "Što bismo trebali učiniti?" _Ottomans are rapidly progressing. What should we do?

_She pulled her cloak tighter around her to block out the numbing cold, turning away from the creators of her almost certain demise and responding quietly to the man who had spoken. Her voice was barely a whisper over the howling wind. "Ne možemo ih zaustaviti, zapovjednik. Mi samo možemo pripremiti." _We can not stop them, captain. We can only prepare_. As she looked back down into the valleys below, a soft unexplainable smile creasing her lips, a sudden darkness fell upon her. A thick cloud front forced its way in front of the shining full moon, obscuring the only source of light for miles around. Her vision darkened, only a few distant pinpricks of light visible before it all went black._

-x-

Yugoslavia opened her eyes into the light.

In reality, she should have been scared – it was almost as if her time abandoned in the storehouse was repeating itself, and she was again lost, hungry, alone. For a moment it was like absolutely nothing had changed, but then she noticed something else around her that drew the negative feelings away. Warmth. She had not felt this much of it for an uncountable number of days, and even then it did not feel like this. This warmth had something special wrapped up in it that was hard for her to describe, but it was almost as if it was trying to comfort her, trying to make her feel… oh, what was the word?… _welcomed_.

Of course, the pleasant memory that was featured in her dream did a pretty good job of helping that cause.

She allowed this observation to soak into her mind for a moment before bringing attention to her surroundings. She was in another room, this one much larger than the one before it, laying on her side in yet another bed. The walls around her were a simple tan color, dotted with multi-colored paintings and posters here and there, with an open window just above her head. Her jacket was hung on a hook at the other end of the room, her boots sitting underneath it. How they got there, she wasn't quite sure. Faint music, accompanied by the chirps of assorted birds, floated in from somewhere nearby. She could feel something just above her holding her down to the bed, and she quickly realized that it was the comforter, tucked under her chin and wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth. She smiled blissfully. It was had for her to believe that she used to take something like this for granted, but she was obviously changed. She let herself revel in the moment for a while longer before focusing on the one question still in the back of her mind: _Where am I?_

Yugoslavia sat up to get a better view of her surroundings, and instantly regretted the decision. The world started spinning around her, and a wave of nausea hit her like a runaway train, the worst possible combination of symptoms in her sight. She reached out and grabbed hold of something in an attempt to make the world stop moving, desperately holding back the painful convulsions in her stomach. Just as the dizziness faded, the nausea decided to make itself present and forced her to lean over the side of the bed, retching violently. She was silently thankful that she had not eaten – wherever she was, she certainly didn't want to get vomit all over the floor – and was even more so when she stopped, breathing heavily, pitifully holding her stomach. She noticed that she was still holding onto something with a death grip, and turned to get a look at the mysterious object.

It was a small oak table, standing proudly at the edge of the bed, supporting a small glass plate on its top. The plate itself held a few light brown pastries, sprinkled with powdered sugar, alongside a pair of cups: a teacup holding a lukewarm brown liquid, and a glass of water. A note, written in black ink on a piece of off-white paper, was pinned to the oak by the water glass, the condensation forming a ring of water on one of the paper's corners.

_I know that you're hungry, so I baked you some scones. They should help put your stomach at ease. I'll be staying here for the day, so feel free to call me if you need me. Signed, England._

Despite herself, Yugoslavia smiled. She had seen England before – she had attended plenty of meetings before the Germany incident – but she had never seen him as the kind of person who would be very caring. Every time she had seen him, he was always being stubbornly courteous or overbearing about one thing or another; then again, she reconsidered, it didn't seem too impossible for him to be this kind. …But if it was America, that would be a little hard to imagine.

Once the black spots danced out of her field of vision and her stomach stopped its maniacal spasms, she glanced again around the room, taking a careful sip of water as she looked. There wasn't very much to see besides her earlier observations: a chest of drawers pushed into the far corner, a stuffed bookshelf standing in the other corner next to the door, a few books and papers scattered here and there around the room. It wasn't very impressive, but she definitely wasn't complaining.

"Lithuania? I thought… No, I was just…"

The voice came from just outside the nearly-closed door, hushed as if its owner was still assuming that she was still asleep. It was obviously annoyed and impatient, and yet the words didn't hint at these emotions. Yugoslavia subconsciously leaned forward and listened closer.

"…Lithuania, where is Russia?" England's voice came slightly louder this time, along with the steady tapping of what sounded like the sole of a boot against a hardwood floor. "Yes, I know that he's… What? How can he not be home? …_Italy_? You can't be serious… Oh, you are. Well, be sure to ring me when he returns, because I must deliver a message to him." And just like that, the conversation was over, punctuated with the sharp _cling_ of a telephone receiver being slammed down onto its switchhook. A soft sigh escaped the nation hidden behind the door. "Of course he's in Italy," he remarked to himself, just loud enough to be heard above his increasingly loud bootsteps.

Yugoslavia did not notice this last comment, however, because she was too busy politely stuffing a scone into her face. It wasn't half bad, despite the rumors that she had heard; it tasted of pumpkin and cinnamon, with a sweet tang that laced the other flavors together. The only problem was that it was slightly hard, presumably from sitting out for who-knows-how-long. She swallowed her current bite and felt it drop into her stomach. After only one scone, she was starting to feel comfortably full, and frankly, she was enjoying it. She only realized what was happening when the door swung open.

In came England, skirting the wall and keeping his steps light as if he thought she really was asleep. He made a beeline toward the chest, gently pulling out one of the drawers and removing a few things – things that appeared to be a few pieces of clothing – before returning the drawer to its original place. Then he turned on his heel, expecting to see the limp form of his guest laying unconscious on the other side of the room. To say the least, he wasn't expecting her to be sitting up with a scone in her hand and a somewhat relieved smile on her face. "…You're awake," he remarked mostly to himself, abandoning the clothing on the top of the chest and crossing the room to get to Yugoslavia. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything? …Are you dizzy at all?" He kneeled next to her and held a hand to her forehead to check for a fever, looking relieved when he felt none. "There's a little more color in your cheeks now. Are you sure you're not dizzy?"

Yugoslavia didn't respond to his last question, since her actually sitting up and not clinging to anything was answer enough. Instead, she asked her own question, her voice still coarse with disuse and tinged with guilt. "…Is this your room?" She glanced back at the pillow, now recognizing the colors of the Union Jack.

"Well, yes," England started, keeping his tone cheerful so that she would not feel worried. Worry was the last thing she needed at the moment. "But it's alright. I didn't have a guest room ready, and I didn't have the time to fix anything, so I let you sleep here."

"…Oh, you did not have to –"

"Yes I did," England replied firmly, trying to look serious but failing to keep the concern out of his eyes. "…Listen, Ćer – Yugoslavia, I appreciate modesty, but now isn't the time for it. I need you to be honest with me, alright? You won't get better if you don't let me help." He stood again, taking the teacup gently in his hands. "I'll heat this up for you. I'll be right back." Turning away from her and snatching up his clothes as he passed them, he strode toward the door.

"England?"

He paused mid-stride, turning his head and gazing back at Yugoslavia with a calm, questioning look.

"I…" Yugoslavia shyly looked down at herself, wishing that she could have at least changed clothes before England let her stay in his bed. "…Thank you," she sighed, lying back down tiredly on the bed. "…For everything." She caught a glimpse of England's warm smile before she shut her eyes against the light.

"Sleep well, love."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I'm really starting to wonder if you people have lives besides watching anime and reading fanfictions… Not that I'm complaining or anything. Over 35 more views in a single day? That makes me feel special. :)  
By the way, I will be writing a Christmas fanfic for Hetalia after I finish this one, but it probably won't be started in December. Maybe mid- to late-January.**

**Chapter Six**

_It feels like so long since I have had a sensible conversation with anyone, even if that someone is only myself. My mind has just been so conflicted recently, with Germany's invasion and the recent distressing shift of power in my country, that I have not had the time or the strength to simply think about something. The stress of everything is getting to me, and I know that I need this time to rest, but now… I just want to go home. I want to see Tito again, and the beautiful lakes and mountains of my country. But that will have to wait._

_England has been a very considerate host these past few days. (He has told me not to call him "Mr. England," claiming that it was "too formal" of a name for our current situation. After the first few days, I have to agree with him.) I had assumed that he was always as blunt and sharp-tongued as he was at the World Meetings. I suppose I was wrong. Although he is constantly peeking into my – excuse me, _his_ – room to ask how I am feeling, I know that he is just worried about me. With his help, my health has been improving greatly, and I have been feeling more relaxed – only God knows what would have happened to me if I was not found._

_It has been four days since England first helped me. Like I was saying before, I have been feeling much better recently – I was walking aimlessly around the house last night because I could not sleep, and the walking is improvement in itself. He let me help him a little with breakfast this morning, and he taught me how to make those pumpkin scones that I have come to love. Why do all of the other nations hate England's cooking? I certainly do not. I am starting to develop a theory that the others just do not like him very well, and that opinion of resentment is passed on to his cooking. I am not quite sure, though. After all, it is only a theory._

…_It might be the stress and worry about my country that is making me say this, or I may be delusional now, but I think that I –_

A soft rap on the door caused the pen to freeze mid-sentence, hovering expectantly over the ink-stained paper.

"Yugoslavia… may I come in?"

Looking up from her scrawled words, Yugoslavia turned her attention to her host's voice on the other side of the bedroom door. "Of course." She had just placed the fountain pen and the notebook on the table before her when the door opened.

Of course, it was England who stepped through the threshold, a comforting smile plastered onto his face, cradling a bundle of fabric in his arms. He stole a quick glance at the notebook, then focused his attention on his guest again. "You're looking cheerful today," he noted aloud, earning a subtle smile from Yugoslavia. "…Anyhow, I went out shopping this morning, and I got you this. I'm not sure if it would fit –" He unfolded the bundle in his arms and held them up for her to see. They were women's clothing – a plain white collared shirt and a black skirt, both brand new. "– but I thought that you could use some new clothes."

Yugoslavia looked down at herself and new instantly that he was right. She was still wearing the clothes that she had found in the warehouse, and they were even now rattier than they were back then. She was more than happy to get out of them and into something clean. "Thank you," she replied with delight, gently taking the bundles from him and holding the fabric between two fingers as if examining it for impurities. "…You did not have to get this for me, you know."

England shook his head, raising one thick eyebrow in amusement and mock confusion. "We both know that that's a lie." He gathered up a few books from the bookshelf before continuing. "You can take a shower, if you're feeling up to it. You already know where the bathroom is – down the hall, to the right."

Yugoslavia could still feel acid in her throat from the moment she had first discovered the bathroom. Her voice wavered uncomfortably for a moment. "…Yes, I remember." She stood and adjusted the clothing over her arm, gesturing to the mangy German jacket that still hung on a hook against one wall. "I will go do that now. And if you do not mind – if it is no trouble, of course – could you see about this jacket getting cleaned? I was thinking about returning it to Germany after this ordeal is over."

_Germany won't want it back._ England didn't let his negative thoughts slip out, and instead answered the question with a polite nod and an optimistic tone, picking the jacket off of its hook and holding it by the collar. "Don't worry about it. I'll make sure it gets clean." He was rewarded with a kind, grateful smile from Yugoslavia as she disappeared down the hall.

He felt something inside of him drop at the sight of her walking away.

-x-

Half an hour came and went with absolutely no notable events. By this time, England was seated comfortably in the brown sofa in the middle of his living room, a good book in his hands, the constant sound of running water in the background soothing to his ears. Yugoslavia had been in the shower for nearly the whole of the thirty minutes that had past, but the thought of such a long shower barely crossed his mind; _she needs it_, he stated, so it's not a problem. After this minimal comment he had gotten wrapped up in his book once again, the suspense of the plot filling him with confusion and anxiety as if it was his first time reading the book. Sherlock Holmes tended to do that to him…

He suddenly heard the loud crash of his front door being swung open, followed by footsteps and a voice an annoying French accent. "Oh _Angleterre_...?"

England visually jumped with surprise when he heard this, almost dropping the book in the process. He tried not to let it show when this uninvited guest waltzed into his living room. "…France? What are you bloody doing in my house?!" As he spoke, his face turned bright red with anger. He would have thrown something, it he had not been holding his prized original copy of _The Hounds of the Baskervilles_.

"Ohonhonhon, isn't it obvious?" France flashed him a winning smile, the one he had always seemed impervious to. Even if it did not charm England into submission like it did many others, it still made him pretty annoyed. "I had heard from America that you had gone home for some reason, so I decided to investigate. Maybe you should stop being so defensive, _Angleterre_."

"_Defensive_?" England shot up from his seat like a bullet, dropping his book behind him and not worrying if he lost his page. "I have a right to be defensive, Pepé le Pew! _You're_ the one who bloody broke into my house! Why don't you –"

In the room behind him, the distant pounding of water silenced.

France stared past England's shoulder at the source of the now-silent sound, a devious grin stretching across his face. "Ah, I get it now. So, when can I meet the lovely girl, eh?"

A drop of fear mixed into England's furious expression, causing his cheeks to turn a shade darker. He prayed that France was as stupid as he had always thought he was. "W-what are you talking about, Francis? I'm the only one here! There isn't –"

England's unwavering demands didn't register to France as he whipped past him and scurried down the corridor. He chuckled creepily to himself as he went. "I'm coming, _mon chéri_…!" He swung open the door in which the sound had come from, fought past a small cloud of steam, and saw…

…No one.

-x-

Yugoslavia sighed with relief once she slipped into her new clothes. They were slightly large, yes, but that was nothing compared to the rags she had been wearing not even an hour ago. It felt nice to wear something that was clean for a change – a feeling that she would never take for granted again – and for now, she was going to enjoy it.

Not yet bothering to open the door and let out the steam accumulated from the hot water, she grabbed a hairbrush from beside the sink and started swatting at her hair, trying to separate the moistened tangles before they had the chance to dry.

A sudden blast of cool air hit her face, and she turned away from the veil of condensation that lined the mirror to see who had interrupted her. She couldn't quite comprehend the figure that approached her until he was already in the room, looking around wildly as if expecting to see some wild beast hiding in the corner. _France…? What is he doing here? _

France suddenly turned to face her, staring distantly into her eyes as if he was trying to look past them, then looked down at the hairbrush in her hand. He snatched it from her and placed it gently beside the sink before storming away in a fit of anger.

For a moment, Yugoslavia was stunned, her eyes locked on the doorway in which France had just left through. "…What just happened…?" How did France get in here in the first place? Determined to find the answer and get rid of the annoying paralysis that kept her in place, she grabbed the hairbrush again and followed the annoyed Frenchman, pausing when she heard his voice up ahead. She his behind the wall and listened carefully.

"What kind of a sick joke was that, _Angleterre_? How did you even manage to turn of the water when you were in here? …Why would you do such a thing to me?!" Even from the distance, his whiny French accent was hurting Yugoslavia's ears.

"I told you that there was no one else here," England retorted smugly, the undertone of relief barely noticeable in his voice. "If you were listening, you would have heard me. Maybe you should go mind your own business, frog. Hmm?"

A strange noise faintly resembling an angered wail sliced the air and slowly faded into silence, punctuated by heavy receding footfalls. "You are killing me," the voice called out one last time before being cut off by the slam of a door and quieting indefinitely.

Obviously satisfied (and relieved) with his small victory, England chuckled to himself to calm his rapidly-beating heart and started walking down the hall to find his guest – almost running into the exact person he was looking for. "Oh, Yugoslavia…" he stammered, stepping back politely. "You…heard that, didn't you?" When he received only a nod, his eyes grew serious. He took a moment to really look at her again, the way he had when he had first seen her. She was definitely in better shape than she was in Germany, seeing as there was more color to her face now, and she looked happier and better fed. Now that England could see her in her natural, non-pained state, she looked barely twenty years old, with such a calm face and kind demeanor. She had so little stress; it was hard for him to tell that she was even a nation. "…You're not hurt, are you? France didn't do anything to you, did he?"

"No, I am fine." Yugoslavia looked past him, confused. "How did he get in here anyway?"

England shrugged bitterly. "I don't know. Just as long as he's not in my house, I'm…" He trailed off, his gaze suddenly moving to her lip. He lightly grasped her chin, much to her surprise, and examined it closely. "When did this happen?"

"What…?" Yugoslavia touched her bottom lip, her fingertip brushing carefully over it, finding the offending wound in a moment. It was a set of splits in her lip, two branching off from one in the middle like a stalk of wheat. She had not noticed it before, but she felt a phantom pain when she touched it. "…Oh… I think this happened after Germany invaded. I had heard that Belgrade was bombed as well…"

England couldn't stand to see the new expression on her face. It was morbid, to say the least, a definite contrast to the upbeat mood that she possessed moments ago. He let go of her chin and tried to make his voice sound a little happier. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, I would," Yugoslavia replied, brightening slightly at the thought of the warm beverage. "…Of course, if it is no trouble…"

England smiled amusedly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You don't need to be so modest, Yugoslavia… Do you mind if I call you Y? Your country's name is just so long, so I thought…" Once again, he cut his sentence short, although they both knew exactly what he was going to say next.

"No, that is fine with me." Yugoslavia mirrored his smile, completing her own unfinished sentence in her mind.

– _like him._

**A/N: Woah, longest chapter ever. I have been awesome recently! :) Like, Prussia awesome! Don't deny it, people.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Holy Roman Empire! Did you people seriously view this over 74 times yesterday? Wow. I really have no idea how to respond to that, except to say THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU a million times. And to beg for reviews. Seriously, one review for 222 views? That's real nice (SARCASM). I just want some input! Does anyone want Prussia to randomly pop in? Any thoughts on Chibitalia's being a girl or not? I don't even care if it's in Japanese, I know how to use Google Translate! Even though it sucks at translating…  
Okay, rage over. Let's get back to the story, shall we?**

**Chapter Seven**

_Something was definitely not right about this place._

_She didn't exactly know how she got here, or how long ago, and that in itself was unnerving. It had happened so many times recently, and she was beginning to sense a pattern: wake up, look around, something bad happens, mortal terror. She prayed that this would be the time when the pattern would be broken._

_Her vision was fuzzy, so she could not see every detail of the room. Everything was so dark that she was surprised that she could see in the first place; the room was hemmed on three sides with mud-caked stone, and a set of iron bars spanned the fourth wall, looking suspiciously prison-like. The floor was made of the same stone as the walls and somehow managed to be even dirtier, with dust and several other breeds of filth mixing together to form a thick, disgusting carpet. An eerie silence floated through the dry, stale air, broken only by the distant call of a passing crow._

_She couldn't help but wonder what would become of her or her cellmate – only when the thought came did she noticed the young man sitting near her, his back to the wall, staring up at the ceiling with a wistful gaze. His eyebrows were like slivers of coal in contrast to the bright blonde of his hair. "Germany can't keep me in here," he murmured confidently to himself, trying to let off an air of tenacity with his statement. "I'll just get out again and be over with this!" But the fear and hurt under his words was painfully obvious to her, and she silently wondered what agony could have caused him to simply give up on himself like this. She considered giving him a few words of encouragement to try to lift up his dampened spirits – _

"– _thought I told you two to talk to me before you try anything like this!"_

_The voice was harsh and intimidating, sounding even more so than usual when accompanied by the sudden slam of a heavy iron door and footsteps set at an angry pace. At any other moment, she would have been able to remember who the voice belonged to; she knew it sounded vaguely familiar at the moment, but in her current confused state of mind, she couldn't seem to put a name to it. _

"_Alright, let's see who we've got here…" The voice came again, louder this time, tinged with a German accent that grated against her hears like sandpaper. A shadow crossed over the barred portion of wall as the figure stood there, watching the prisoners with a hawk's eye. His face was hidden from sight, the faint light behind him obscuring it in darkness. He shook his head. "Of course it's you again," he commented with a scornful glance toward the blonde man. "I was hoping you wouldn't come back. Get up."_

_Paralyzed with what she could only assume was shock, she watched with horror as her friend subserviently obeyed the German and shakily stood, plodding through the now open cell door in defeat. The German led him away from the cell and into the depths of the corridor beyond, turning a corner and leaving her alone with her thoughts._

_Not even a minute later, the sound of a gunshot pierced her ears and heart like a knife of frozen steel._

"_England!" she cried, feeling the cool sting of tears welling up in her eyes. She had been silent before, but could not manage it any longer; her single word released all of the pent-up fear and grief that had accumulated in a matter of minutes._

_The German man didn't seem to notice the cry, however, as he tromped back up the corridor toward the cell. He was partially bent over something at his side, something that looked suspiciously like a pistol being stuffed into its holster. "That takes care of him," he murmured dismissively, regaining his straight posture and staring down at the second prisoner before him. Even though his face was still shrouded in shadows, she could now see his eyes: ice blue, cold, deathly._

"_Get up," he said, a strange glint passing in front of his eyes. He kneeled down and stared at her face-to-face, an icy hatred covering his words._

"_Don't make me hurt you, Jugoslawien."_

Yugoslavia bolted upright when she awoke, a stagnant scream dying in her throat. The world around her was surprisingly clear to her: the tan walls, the hardwood flooring, the blue and red pillow that had previously been under her head, the faint scent of tea and burnt things in the air. This was all familiar to her, but it didn't help ease the increasing feeling of dread in her chest. She could feel herself tremble under the warm embrace of the bed's comforter; even though the horrid nightmare was gone, she could still see the German's eyes locked onto hers, hear her country's name spoken in his own tongue*, feel the frigid anxiety running through her veins…

The door to the bedroom jerked open, the handle crashing into the wall with a sickening bang. She would not have noticed this, her attention held captive by the lasting impressions that the dream threw upon her, if it wasn't for the person that walked through it.

"What happened?" England hissed, his voice steady and threatening, silently warming any intruders to back away and leave his friend alone. He had a pistol in his hand, another form of warning. "Who's…?" A few glances around the room told him that there was no one else in sight, and another brought his gaze to Yugoslavia. She was shaking terribly, and a fearful blank stare directed toward the wall in front of her. Seeing her that way hurt him a little on the inside. For a moment, he saw someone else in her face, someone he had not seen in a long time: a young America, waking up from a nightmare in the middle of the night and requiring comfort from his older brother. But just as quickly as the image came, it was gone. He placed the gun on top of the bookshelf and called out to her again. "Yugoslavia? Are you okay?"

There was only silence, apart from the raspy breathing of the frightened female country that continuously slowed as the seconds passed. After what seemed like forever, she looked down, closing her eyes but opening them again to ward away the image if those ice-blue eyes. "I…" Her voice wavered. "I… It was nothing," she murmured, the reassuring tone she meant to have hidden. "You… do not need… to worry about me…"

Ignoring her pleas, England sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "Y, listen. You can't always be bluntly modest about everything, you know. Sometimes you just have to tell the truth and nothing but. …Now tell me: did you have a nightmare?"

Yugoslavia lapsed into silence upon hearing the nickname, giving him a simple nod in response. She felt England's arm wrap around her shoulder, but didn't move away.

"…Do you want to talk about it?"

With an inaudible sigh, Yugoslavia looked up at her friend. England looked truly concerned, and even seemed like he had been in this position sometime before. For a moment, she saw something else in his face, something that she wished she would never have to see again: the England from her nightmare, his ego broken down until nothing remained but a defeated shell of his former self. But just as quickly as the image came, it was gone. She shook her head in response, letting out a breath that she did not realize she was holding. "…England?"

His attention snapped back to her at the sound of his name. "What is it?"

Yugoslavia was unable to speak without her words coming out in short, ragged breaths. "What… what time is it?"

England moved slightly; Yugoslavia assumed that he was looking at his wristwatch. "It's nearly three in the morning." He looked back at Yugoslavia, who was subconsciously leaning against him, and drew back his arm. "Why don't you try to get some rest? I'm sure that you're just stressed, that's all."

_Stress. Yes, that must be it._ Yugoslavia lay down again, ignoring the cries of resistance from her mind. _It will all be fine in the morning, I am sure of it._

England smiled a little, standing and tiptoeing toward the doorway. "I'm in the other room if you need anything," he whispered before disappearing around the corner.

Surrounded by silence once again, Yugoslavia closed her eyes, praying that some sign of sleep would make itself present before she started imagining things again.

_Come here, Jugoslawien._

It was the German voice from the nightmare. It haunted her, whispering things she could not hear, secretly watching her with those ice-blue eyes. Her own blue-green ones open again, staring at the blank tan wall inches from her face. She wished that she could forget the whole thing, that she could wipe it from her mind the same way Italy did with his childhood…

_Italy._ She hadn't seen her old friend for a while now, ever since he had allied himself with the other Axis powers in the beginning of this World War Two. _I wonder where he is now,_ she thought curiously, pleasant memories pricking at her mind and battling for attention. _We used to be such good friends…_

_Suddenly, she was young again, sweeping he floors of Mr. Austria's house the way that she had been taught. It was mildly quiet in the house or a change, with the Holy Roman Empire off to annex some other territory and the other members of the household all busy doing other things. She remembered the maid-like dress that she had been given to wear, and the white headscarf holding back her hair and shielding it from the elements. Soft piano music floated through the air._

_The sound of soft footsteps wound into the music, giving it an unnatural beat. The young Yugoslavia turned away from her work and saw a familiar figure walking toward her, a teetering stack of plates in her hand. "Hello, Italy," she greeted, a warm smile spreading across her face._

_The other country looked up and saw her friend, returning the smile with squinted eyes. "Oh, hello…Yugosia." (Yugoslavia had chuckled slightly when she heard this, but didn't say anything – Italy forgetting Yugoslavia's name was a constant occurrence in their friendship, and Y didn't really mind at all.) "How are you?"_

"_I am fine, thank you." Yugoslavia glanced at the plates in Italy's hands, resting her broom against the wall. "Do you want some help?"_

"_Oh, yes! Thank you, sorella!" Italy sat the plates on the ground in front of her, flinching when she heard a tiny crack, and handed half of them to Yugoslavia. "Do you mind if I talk to you about something?"_

_Yugoslavia cradled the plates in both arms. "I do not mind at all. What is it that is bothering you?"_

"_I'm afraid," Italy murmured quietly so that no one else could hear, "for Holy Rome."_

_Yugoslavia somehow managed to give Italy a reassuring pat on the shoulder while balancing the plates in one hand. "You do not need to worry about him, Italy. Holy Rome will be back soon, I know he will. He always does."_

"_But…" Italy sniffled. "…What if he doesn't… like me?"_

"_Of course Holy Rome likes you," Yugoslavia replied confidently, pushing back her inner theory that her Italian friend could just as well be a boy in girl's clothing. The feeling had been present ever since she met her, though she would never tell. "I have seen him talk about you."_

_Italy sniffled again, though this time there was a small, happy smile on her face. "…He does?"_

_Yugoslavia nodded simply. "I am sure of it."_

"_Oh, thank you, sorella!" Italy was practically bouncing up and down with happiness. "When he gets back, I…"_

_The reason for Italy trailing off stood right in front of them. Austria had paused in the corridor, hearing the two younger nations talking. His face was blank but serious. "Yugoslavia? It's time for you to go."_

_Yugoslavia's expression went from peacefully calm to upset and slightly bitter, and she tried to hide behind Italy. "No! …I do not want to go back to Otto-san's house! He… he scares me!"_

"_That is not my problem," Austria retorted indignantly. "That was what the Ottoman Empire and I agreed on when he took over the southern half of your country. Now, hand Italy those plates and get your things."_

_Yugoslavia knew that by "get your things" Austria meant "do as I say and get out of here quickly before I decide to throw you out." Knowing that there was no choice but to obey, she added the plates to the stack that Italy had created on the floor and hugged her friend. "Goodbye, Italy," she whispered. "I promise, I will come back…"_

_Italy had started sniffling again, and hugged her friend even tighter. "Goodbye, Yugosyria… Good luck…"_

The incorrect name made Yugoslavia chuckle to herself. Despite the mildly upsetting ending of that particular memory, the thought of a childhood friend still warmed her heart. Another memory came after it, and another, and another, in a seemingly endless stream of life that made her eyelids grow heavy and her breaths quiet. She closed her eyes, letting the comfort of sleep overtake her, not hearing the German voice whispering in the back of her mind.

_Gute nacht, Jugoslawien._

**A/N: I almost made myself cry writing that first part. Seriously, causing your characters grief and moral infliction is hard work!  
*In case you've been living under a rock for the past 1549 words, **_**Jugoslawien**_** is Yugoslavia in German. I added it because it sounds cool. :D In addition, **_**sorella**_** is Italian for sister. (Even though Yugoslavia isn't Italy's sister, their friendship back then was like that.)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Four o'clock in the morning brought a phone call and some rather distressing news.

Of course, England would never let Yugoslavia know that the call had kept him from sleeping, nor would he let her know the news – yet. After the nightmare ordeal just an hour earlier, he couldn't let her know about it so soon. No, it could wait.

He didn't know how far into the morning it was when England finally gave up trying to sleep, and dragged himself out of the guest bedroom he was using to fix himself a steaming cup of tea. That's all I need, he thought to himself, just something that will wake me up and calm me down. He stood, stretching his legs a little before starting to walk toward the kitchen…

…and stopped to stare at the coffee table in the living room. Rather than the empty wooden table he had seen earlier, it was now adorned with a single object: a white porcelain teacup, filled with a lukewarm brown liquid that looked (and, now that he thought about it, smelled) exactly like tea. Beside it lay a small green creature, sleeping in a curled-up ball, its wings and ears tucked under itself. The creature seemed totally oblivious to its surroundings, or even the fact that it was even in existence at the moment.

"Flying Mint Bunny?" England was just as surprised to see the creature as he was to see the tea. He poked it lightly to wake it up. "What are you doing here?"

"Wha…?" Flying Mint Bunny yawned and stretched his back, looking up at the country with bright black eyes. "Oh, hi England! …Yeah, Yugoslavia kicked me out of your storage room. Said she needed quiet, or something like that."

"She…" England's brain had to do some serious work to figure out that one. "She… _noticed_ you?"

"Yeah. Cool, huh?" Flying Mint Bunny floated upward until he was eye level with England. "She's a nice girl. She made you tea! …It's probably cold by now, though…"

England's mind was still grappling with the whole Yugoslavia-saw-Flying-Mint-Bunny thing, but he did manage to notice the tea again before another detail of his friend's story came to light. "Did you say she was in the storage room?"

Flying Mint Bunny nodded. "Yeah. I don't know why though. Maybe she wanted to see…" The flying mythical creature suddenly trailed off, and England suddenly noticed what he was listening to. There had been some sort of distant noise in the background, and he hadn't given much thought to it, but not he recognized the sound as the quiet vibrations of musical notes ringing through the air. They slurred together a little before forming a peaceful melody in his mind, one that sounded suspiciously like a piece composed by Beethoven.

England listened for a moment, not willing to make a sound in fear that he would miss something, and then quietly asked, "Is the piano still in the storage room?" When he only received a curt nod from the floating green animal, he proceeded to follow the noise down the corridor, the music growing steadily louder with each step he took. The trail of sound led him to a partially-open door, letting in the view of a semi-dark room beyond. They only light source in the room was that of a high window on the opposite wall, letting in a stream of weak orange light from the dawn sunrise outside. Directly under the window sat England's dusty piano, hemmed with chests and boxes and other items commonly found in a storage room. The figure sitting at the piano had just taken a sip of tea from a cup sitting on the bench beside them and had continued playing, fingers flying across the keys and producing one of the loveliest sounds England had heard in a long time. The figure was really getting into the music, swaying slightly to the beat; if he didn't know any better, he would have thought that Austria had somehow gotten into his house.

As if on cue, the figure paused again, turning around in their seat to look back at the person standing in the doorway. "Oh, good morning, England," Yugoslavia greeted quietly, the fear and confusion of the previous night gone. "…Did I wake you? I am sorry if I did…"

"Oh no," England reassured, sitting on the piano bench beside her as she started playing again. "I've been awake for a while. Thank you for the tea, by the way… Beethoven?"

"Chopin." Yugoslavia paused to listen to the music, slow yet lively, that emanated from the instrument. "Austria taught me how to play when I worked for him, when I was much younger."

_No wonder._ "Really?"

"Mhm." She closed her eyes, the vivid images of a long-past memory projecting itself in her mind, her fingers never once pausing over the keys. "I would be done with my chores for the day, and I would wander Austria's house to see if I could find him. He would usually be at his piano, and I would stand and listen to him play. Then he –"

That was when Flying Mint Bunny floated into the room, moving around Yugoslavia's head before settling himself down on her head. "Hi, Yugoslavia! Can I have your tea?"

"No." The curt reply that she gave made the green creature sulk a little, but Yugoslavia couldn't see it, since he was on her head. "Then Austria would let me sit beside him," she continued, as if there had been no interruption, "and he would show me how to play. I was a fast learner, and by the time I left his house he said that I was nearly as good as him." Her last words had a hint of uncertainty within them.

"You are," England protested, his usual blunt honesty coming into play again. "I was actually beginning to think that you were Austria when I walked in…"

The music stopped.

For a moment, England panicked. The music had been a common presence in the room for quite some time now – _How long have I even been in here?_ – and its disappearance made the space disturbingly silent. He turned his eyes away from the piano and saw Yugoslavia watching him, her eyebrows lowered in an expression of confusion. She glanced down at the floor, then back up at him. "…Why are you wearing your military uniform?"

"…What?" England stammered stupidly, looking back down at himself and mentally cussed himself out. _Bloody hell! Why did I even put this on this morning?!_ "Er… Actually, that's what I need to talk to you about."

The look on Yugoslavia's face went from confusion to downright worry. "Is something wrong?"

Rather than answering the question, England stood and cleared his throat. "How about we go for a walk, hmm?" The sudden liveliness in his voice was obvious, and yet it seemed slightly forced, rough around the edges from fear or worry. "We can find a spot to have breakfast along the way."

"That sounds nice," Yugoslavia agreed, standing from her place at the piano and abandoning the now cold tea atop its wooden surface. _What is it with England today?_ she asked herself.

She wasn't sure she really wanted an answer.

**A/N: I'm sorry that this is shorter and probably worse than my other chapters, but I've been feeling weird lately. Another writer's block, I think. But don't worry; I won't leave this story behind! There's still more to come!**


	9. History Moment 2! (also known as Ch 9)

**Chapter Nine**

_Hey guys, it's Random-san again, here with yet another Hetalia History Moment!_

_Let's start out with some simple facts. The country of (former) Yugoslavia was composed of six smaller countries in Eastern Europe:__ Bosnia and Herzegovina,__Croatia, Macedonia,__Montenegro,__Serbia, and__Slovenia. The actual idea of the formation of Yugoslavia didn't start until the late 17__th__ century, but we're not going to get into that. Instead, let's focus on two very large and important powers around the time of the 16__th__ century: the Ottoman Empire and the Holy Roman Empire. Both empires at the time had managed to acquire parts of the future Yugoslav states for themselves, because Yugoslavia's armed forces at the time were pitifully weak. So Chibislavia was forced to constantly move between Austria's and Otto-san's houses to work for both of them, because being in two places at one time was something that people at that time didn't think about too much._

_Fast-forward to 1918, around the time of World War One. By now, both empires had dissolved and had released their grasp on the world, and many of the Slavic people were hearing about an idea to unite their countries. Since so many people were approving the idea (except for Serbia, but they were forced into it anyway), they united under the name "the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes," which was quickly changed to "the Kingdom of Yugoslavia." They were pretty happy for the next twenty years or so. Then along came World War Two, where they were invaded by Nazi Germany, and… Well, you all know _that_ story._

_Fun fact! After World War Two, the Yugoslav border was extended slightly to include that little peninsula thing near Venice, which had previously been Italian territory. So I guess you could say that some Yugoslavs are actually dim-witted, pasta-loving, white flag-waving Italians. Cool stuff, huh? (That's also why Yugoslavia has a soft spot for pasta and fine art.)_


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: By the way, I should probably mention that I own absolutely none of this except for Yugoslavia (and England's weird neighbor…but we'll get to him later). See, if I actually did own Hetalia, then Yugoslavia would be added in a heartbeat. Just saying. ^j^**

**Chapter Ten**

The house was a large one in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of London, far from the noise of the bustling city yet only minutes from the city's center. Of course, everyone in the neighborhood knew who the owner of the house was; if asked, they would say that his name was Arthur Kirkland, age 23, lieutenant-colonel in the British Armed Forces. Some of the more nosy neighbors would also add that he seemed to be constantly talking to himself, talked about other countries like they were real people, and had a tendency to often catch his stove on fire when he cooked. Despite his strange characteristics, these were simply written off as quirks, as these people have all seen stranger things than a man personifying countries in his mind and the spontaneous combustion of scones.

They didn't know how wrong they are.

It was one of these neighbors that saw Arthur leave his house on this particular morning, while he was weeding his front yard. For simplicity's sake, we will call him Mr. Graham. Mr. Graham was in his 40's, lived across the street from Arthur, and secretly always admired how serious his neighbor could be despite his youth. He was also greatly surprised at how he had never seen him with a girlfriend, even though he was fairly handsome (…well, except for his eyebrows, but he would never mention those to him). Anyway, back to the story. Mr. Graham was ripping weeds from the flower beds ringing his home, humming quietly to himself, when he heard a distant voice behind him, followed by the heavy thud of a closing door.

"…a fantastic tea house nearby," the voice was saying, gaining familiarity to Mr. Graham by the second, "in a park just a few blocks from here."

Mr. Graham knew exactly who the voice belonged to, but still his curiosity got the best of him, and he turned away from his digging to look back. Sure enough, he saw a military uniform-wearing Arthur walking down the path toward the street, holding the gate open for an attractive young lady wearing a black skirt. _I was starting to wonder when he would find someone,_ he thought cheekily before raising a dirt-streaked hand in greeting. "Good morning, Arthur! Off somewhere, I see!"

England, upon hearing his human name, turned and gave his neighbor a light smile in return. "Good morning, Mr. Graham. I was just going out for a walk."

"Well, don't be out for too long," Mr. Graham warned, turning back to his flowers. "I heard there's a storm coming –" He laughed jovially to himself. "– but then again, when isn't there?"

England hadn't heard these last words, however, because he was already busy walking down the side of the street next to Yugoslavia, who was fairly quiet except for a single comment.

"Your neighbors seem to be very friendly people, En –"

"They are," England agreed, raising his voice slightly as if he wanted to make sure it was projected all around him. "I'm sure they would all like you, love." In a much quieter tone, he added, "Don't call me England around my neighbors."

Yugoslavia gave him a weird look before averting her eyes. "Oh… Do they not know that you are…?"

"Yes."

An awkward silence drifted between them for a while, the moments dragging on as they walked through the streets of outer-city London, not even broken by the peaceful chirping of birds overhead or the sounds of cars in the distance. A wispy cloud drifted in front of the sun for a moment, bathing the ground around them in faded, marbled shadows before dissolving into the air.

"…Do you think you are happy with your life?"

The question didn't register in England's mind at first, the words slurring with the deafening silence around them, so his mind had to work to comprehend it. "…What?" He was starting to notice a pattern of stupid-sounding speech whenever Yugoslavia was at the other end of the conversation. "Where did that come from?"

Yugoslavia simply shrugged, looking back at him with the contemplative expression that Greece usually possessed. "It is a psychological question." _Besides, I am not sure if I could have handled that awkward silence for much longer._ She chuckled lightly to herself.

"Do I think I'm happy with my life?" England echoed quietly, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he thought. "Hmm, I've never really thought about that. I suppose that I…" _Well, my life isn't perfect. After all, there is America, and that frog France…_ "Well…" _And then there's Spain. That __git __was such a pain when we were younger._ "Now that I think about it," he started again, this time with an amused chuckle, "my life sucks."

Yugoslavia gave him a small, wry smile in response. "It could always be worse," she reasoned, sure that they both know that as countries they had pretty good lives for themselves – in peace, at least.

"That's true…" England kept on trailing off, due to focusing on the ongoing argument he was having with his inner self. So far, the conversation had gone something like this:

I should tell her. Better now than later… (England)

_No way! She'll probably think you're insane for saying it!_ (Inner Voice)

But I can't wait for much longer! You remember the news that I got earlier!

_I remember. But you should at least tell her that news before you go off on some wild tangent._

That's true…but I can't just put it off forever!

_I never said that! But even if you did say it, you know that she'd –_

Fine, I won't. Just don't remind me of that.

The conversation pretty much ended there.

England self-consciously cleared his throat, gaining the attention of Yugoslavia again in the process. "You remember the news I talked to you about earlier, correct?" His voice was regaining its cynical tone that always came out when he was talking to other countries, a tone that Yugoslavia hadn't heard since the last World Meeting.

"Yes, I remember." She took a deep breath, bracing herself for whatever bad news was about to come.

"Well…" Apparently England needed to brace himself too, because he had to take a breath before he could continue. "I got a call from my boss early this morning. He told me that since I put America in charge of the troops while I was away – that probably wasn't my best idea – we have been failing left and right. He told me… that I need to go back and clean up his mess."

"Oh." Yugoslavia gave a downcast look at the ground before glancing back up at him. "When do you have to leave?"

"Tomorrow," England sighed, leaning against the trunk of an oak tree that was growing directly beside the sidewalk. "America should be at the Greek border by now."

Yugoslavia paused under the weak shade of the tree. "Do you mind if I come along? My home is along the way to Greece, if it is not too much of a bother…"

"Of course it's not! I'd be happy to help." England sounded distracted, distant, as if he was trying to settle an argument within himself – which, in reality, he was. His next statement came as a surprise to Yugoslavia. "…Actually Y, there is something else that I wanted to tell you before I had to leave."

_What are you doing?_ his inner voice hissed. _I thought you said that you weren't going to say that!_

Too bad, England responded.

"What is it?" Yugoslavia asked worriedly, completely oblivious to the conflict that was happening within England's mind.

"Well…"

_Don't you say it!_

Shut up. "I've been thinking lately…"

_Oh no. You're messing up already._

I'm not talking to you! England suddenly found it hard to hold her gaze, but forced himself to, biting back the nervousness that threatened to come out. "…and there was something that just wouldn't leave my mind."

_You're screwed._

I said I'm not talking to you!

Rather than seeing the inner conflict, Yugoslavia sensed the mild discomfort that laced his words, desperate to not hear any more bad news. "What is it?" she echoed herself.

England sighed, dropping his eyes so that they looked down at his feet. The single word that he said came with a tone so serious, so quiet, so _real_ that if Yugoslavia hadn't been there to hear it, she would have never thought that it had come from England.

"…You."

The word brought Yugoslavia to silence, her mouth drawing into a thin line of confusion and thought. She felt her cheeks go from a light pink to a tomato red in an instant. When she finally found her voice again, her voice came out as a stammer. "...D...Did you just say...?"

"Bloody hell," England hissed to himself, his hand closing into an angered fist. "I shouldn't have said anything. You probably think that I'm a pervert, saying those things to you when you don't feel the same way..."

_Great. That's bloody fantastic, England. Cheesy pickup lines? You're worse off than France._

"I'm sorry," England continued, glaring down at the ground between his feet so hard that Russia's head might as well have been there. "I made you uncomfortable, and that wasn't very gentlemanly of me. I should have –"

"England."

Yugoslavia's voice made England pause and look up from his intense staring at the nonexistent Russia. He met her eyes and saw something the total opposite of what he had expected: a smile; a soft, lenient smile that seemed to brighten the world around them and made the impending rainstorm obsolete in their eyes.

"England," she said again, an unfamiliar emotion winding into her words, "you did not make me uncomfortable, only a little surprised. Please, do not beat yourself up about it. I… I know how you feel." She couldn't help but smile a little more. "I can have a pretty hard time expressing my emotions as well."

For a while they just stared at each other, emerald meeting aqua, not bothering to notice the occasional passersby or the layer of clouds slowly inching across the sky above. By the time their gazes broke apart, Yugoslavia's blush had decreased to a faded pink and England had gained a more relaxed, casual smirk.

"…So you feel the same way?" England asked tentatively, no longer looking for an answer so much as wanting to confirm his suspicions.

Yugoslavia answered in a heartbeat. "Yes."

Another silence drifted between them, but this time it wasn't awkward or lacking purpose. This was a silence of understanding, of mutual compassion between the countries. A gentle breeze shook the leaves of the tree above and accidentally picked one off, holding it in the air before dropping it onto England's head. Yugoslavia picked it off with ease, her smile growing a little before discarding it behind her. Before she had the chance to say a word, England reached out and wrapped his arms around her in a hug, saying the three words that were on both of their minds.

"I love you."

_CRACK._

The clouds opened up above them and a cascade of water fell to the earth, accompanied by the bright flashes of lightning on the horizon. The sharp crack that they had heard was not-so-distant thunder hitting the steeple of a church across the city. England jerked away from the tree – the thought of getting electrocuted didn't sit well with him – and grabbed Yugoslavia's hand. "We need to get back to the house," he called over the pounding of the rain, turning and running back down the sidewalk toward his house, completely abandoning the idea of going out for breakfast. Despite the fact that they were now running and nearly soaked to the bone, he thought he heard Yugoslavia laugh, hearty and sincere.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

-x-

_Hey, it's Random-san again, with a quick Hetalia History Moment!_

**Good job ruining the moment.**

_No problem. Anyway… Just so you know, America actually had absolutely nothing to do with the Allied assistance during the Balkans Campaign, probably because he was too busy dropping bombs on German U-boats at the time (according to Wikipedia, at least). But hey, it's Hetalia. Not everything can be history-approved, right? (But yes, the United Kingdom did help Yugoslavia and Greece fight off Germany and Italy during the Campaign, even though they failed miserably.)_


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: …And so begins the OTP of Engloslavia. If anyone bashes me for it, I will get Russia to personally pound you into the snow. ^j^ (I'm sorry if the last chapter was really bad, by the way, because I suck at fluff.)**

**Chapter Eleven**

The road to Belgrade was a long one, especially for the two foreigners in the black Dodge D-19. German soldiers flooded the streets of the new Axis territory, constantly on the lookout for any suspicious people coming in or out of the bordering cities. In fact, it was a miracle that they hadn't been caught yet; two foreigners traveling through occupied territory, one wearing an overcoat over what looked like a military uniform? If she hadn't been there to start speaking Croatian to the questioning soldiers, they would have already been captured, no doubt about it. **[1]**

Now, as they neared the outer edges of the Yugoslav capitol city, Yugoslavia couldn't help but let out a relieved sigh. The city itself was in terrible shape – buildings all over were crumbled and destroyed, a sight that made the scar on her lip throb slightly – but she could already see the signs of repair in the form of people in the streets holding hammers and boards, and in the steady stream of music that seemed to flow unsupervised from every visible side alley. Belgrade definitely looked worse than it had the last time she had seen it, but even then, she was happy to be home.

She stole a glance over at England, who was the one driving the car, his eyes planted firmly on the road ahead. At the moment, he was wearing his military uniform – why he put it on rather than civilian clothes, she wasn't quite sure – and his hat, gray with a darker brim and a bronze-colored eagle pin just above it, sat idly on the car's dashboard. He had been generally silent for most of the trip, which was strange for him. _It must be the German soldiers that are making him so quiet,_ Yugoslavia reasoned, but something still seemed a little off. _…Then again, maybe he –_

"Where did you say your house was?" England asked suddenly, drawing her away from her thoughts and giving her a sideways glance.

Yugoslavia drew her attention back to the city before them. "Across the river and down the first road on the left," she instructed, nodding in the general direction of the house.

A few minutes and several complicated directions later, the car pulled into the cobblestone driveway of a huge villa hugging the shore of the Danube River. The house obviously belonged to someone of high power, with its intricate arched doorways, its sun-bleached walls, and the black iron railing ringing the terrace on the top floor, but even the most beautiful of homes had the war take a toll on it. Two craters marked the corners of the property: one placed at the opposite end of the driveway surrounded by scattered stone, and the other sitting directly at the edge of the house, its presence made note-worthy by the demolished portion of wall beside it.

Yugoslavia stepped out of the car just as it pulled to a halt, staring despondently at the wreckage before her. _My house…_ She couldn't seem to find any words to say, so she just stood there with her mouth hanging slightly open, unable to rip her gaze away. She didn't notice England get out of the car until he was standing beside her.

"Don't worry," England reassured, placing a calming arm around her shoulders. "The damage doesn't look too bad." _That must have been from the bombing…_

"…R…Right," Yugoslavia murmured, forcing her voice to work again. "Yes." She walked around the side of the house, forcing herself to look away from the splintered wood that used to be a wall. "Tito!" she called out suddenly, opening the supposedly unlocked front door and letting herself in, England following behind. "_Gdje si, dečko_?"

The call echoed through the house, sending her words back to her a thousand times before growing silent. She took a step into the foyer, about to call out again when a tan-and-black blur flew down at her from the stairs above and plowed into her, sending her to the ground with a laugh. "_Gdje samostalno možete! Gledao kuću za mene, vi_?" **[2]**

England stood behind her, staring at the thing with eyebrows furrowed in confusion. It took his mind a moment to realize that the thing that knocked Yugoslavia over was a dog, a large, furry one with a tan coat ticked with black and strong, broad shoulders. At this point, Y was sitting up with her back against the wall, and the dog was in her lap, enjoying the petting and kind words that it was being given.

After a moment, Yugoslavia looked up from the dog, reverting back to English. "England, this is Tito. He is a Yugoslav Shepherd." Quietly, she added, "He does not understand English, only Croatian."

At the sound of his name, the dog followed his master's gaze and stared straight at England, a faint growl rumbling in his throat.

England wasn't quite sure of what just happened, but he stood his ground, not allowing himself to be shown up by a dog. "Y, why is he growling?" In case bad came to worse, he mentally prepared himself for the moment the dog decided to jump at him.

Yugoslavia crouched beside the dog, holding him by the scruff of the neck. "Tito,_ br. Engleska je moj prijatelj__. _England is my friend." **[3]**

Tito growled a bit more, moving his head slightly so he could look England over. The stare-down went on for countless moments, man vs. dog, country representative vs. pet of country representative, before Tito yipped contentedly, trotting forward and sitting on England's foot.

England, still prepared for an all-out attack from the dog, didn't bother moving his foot before the dog plopped itself down on it. Despite his shock and confusion, he smirked down at the dog. "Well, that was interesting."  
"I am sorry about him," Yugoslavia apologized, chuckling a little in amusement. "He does that to people he does not know."

"Why are you apologizing?" England joked, moving his foot out from under Tito and earning a sharp glare from him. "He was the one who sat on me!"

Shaking her head slightly, Yugoslavia took a moment to wander the house and assess any other damage done from the bombing. Most of the house was standing strong, and its structure was sound, but the scene she saw from outside was the worst. Her dining room and a large chunk of her living room were completely destroyed, chunks of wood and plaster thrown everywhere among torched bits of grass and plants. The terrace above had collapsed in on itself, its iron railing badly bent and what used to be wooden furniture blackened with dirt and ashes. In a word, the scene looked horrendous. She let out a sigh. _This is going to need some serious renovation._

"Y?" England's voice came from behind her, although there were no footsteps to accompany it. "Do you mind if I go get something real quick?"

"I do not mind." Yugoslavia tried to imagine how the room was before the bombing, back when the country was excluded from the terrors of this World War. The more she thought about it, the less clear the image was in her mind. She remembered sitting at the piano in the living room and playing music to push away the silence that often enveloped the place. Unlike many of the other nations, she had very few "people," very few workers who stayed around the house and helped her with the little things that came up. Those people were gone now, but to where, she had no clue. It was times like those, times when she would try everything to get rid of the deafening silence, that she was truly afraid of being alone.

Footsteps behind her broke her away from her tired mind's rant as England walked back into the room, carrying a cardboard box within his arms. "Are you okay?" he asked, seeing the contemplative distress in her eyes.

She shook her head slightly to expel the negative thoughts. "Yes, I was just thinking." She glanced down at the box. "What is this?"

England gave her a soft smile, adjusting the package in his arms. "It's for you. Do you want me to put it down somewhere?"

"Er, yes." Yugoslavia led him into the remaining half of her living room, gesturing to the coffee table in the center of the space. "You can put it right there."

England gently placed the box in the center of the table and straightened again, wrapping his arms around Yugoslavia. "So this is goodbye," he breathed, the words filling the house – and their hearts – with dread.

Yugoslavia didn't object, closing her eyes against the tears that threatened to fall. "I suppose so…"

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, before England took a step back and grasped Yugoslavia's shoulders. "Don't worry about me," he instructed, as if he could read her mind. "That's my job. You just need to watch out for yourself. If Germany starts hurting you again," he added with a smirk, "just tell me. I can handle him."

Yugoslavia smiled slightly. "I will keep that in mind." **[4]**

England shrugged innocently before continuing. "I'll be fine. Just make sure that you're keeping your country in check. …There's a meeting in France in a couple weeks, in Évian-les-Bains. It sounds pretty important, so I think you should go too. We'll meet up at the conference hall." He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I… I love you."

Yugoslavia gazed down at the ground before looking back up at him. "…I love you too."

The corners of England's mouth twitched up slightly when he heard that, and he gently kissed the top of her head. "Take care of yourself, Y."

And then he was gone.

Yugoslavia couldn't stand to watch him go, so she wandered the house, pausing at a window opening to the Danube River. As she watched the river ripple with waves, she strained to hear the music from the distant city streets across the water, trying to block out the Croatian proverb that kept repeating itself in her mind: _Kak dobljeno, tak zgubljeno._

Easy come, easy go.

-x-

An hour passed.

Finally dragging herself away from the window, Yugoslavia settled down in a chair in her half-ruined living room, trying not to look at the damage behind her as she examined the cardboard box that England had given to her. It looked nearly brand new, felt fairly heavy for a box its size, and was being held closed by a strip of silver duct tape. "Why do you think England gave me this?" she asked Tito, who was sitting diligently on the floor at he feet. The dog looked at her strangely, obviously not understanding a word that she was saying. Shaking her head in annoyance, she reached out and plucked a letter opener from the table in front of her, slicing apart the tape and opening the top flaps.

The contents of the box were nestled within a lining of old newspapers, half-hidden by a folded piece of paper resting on top. Staring quizzically at the paper, she picked it up and carefully opened it so that the scrawling black text became visible.

_I knew that your country is in bad shape at the moment, so I thought you could use a few things._

Yugoslavia cracked a smile at the simple opening sentence. It seemed so unlike England to do something like this, but then again, it was also unlike him to say that he loved someone. Letting out a sigh of remorse, she sifted through the objects within the box, occasionally glancing back at the letter to see what other information it held. The first item she pulled out was a bundle of blue-and-white fabric, softer than nearly anything she had ever seen before. When she unfolded it, one end dropped neatly to the ground.

_I had made the scarf a while back and never actually needed it yet, so I thought you'd like it. It may be a little early, but come December, I'm sure it'll work just fine._

The next object was a small basket containing a few bundles wrapped in napkins. When she opened it, the faint smell of baking scones filled the air, causing her to smile wide with contentment.

_You loved my scones so much, so I thought you would like some more. (The recipe is in there too, by the way.)_

Sitting at the bottom of the box was a strangely familiar olive-green jacket with shoulder marks and matching buttons, a small leather-bound notebook poking out from one of its pockets. It looked so different to Yugoslavia now; the last time she saw it, it was no more than a tattered rag, but now it almost looked brand new.

_You mentioned that you wanted to give your jacket back to Germany, but even though he probably wouldn't accept it, I assumed he wouldn't want a ripped-up piece of fabric. It's amazing what you can do with a little thread and some downtime._

_I included your notebook too. I was sure you wouldn't want to leave it at my house, since you've already written so much in it. (I didn't read any of it, just so you know.)_

There seemed to be nothing left in the box, so Yugoslavia dumped out the remaining newspapers onto the ground beside her feet. Surely I can use those for something, she was thinking, when her thoughts were interrupted by a near-silent _clink_ somewhere near the ground. When she looked down again to search for the source of the sound, she saw something glint under the weak afternoon light: a small bronze-colored eagle, the pin that had just earlier been placed proudly on the front of England's hat. Just seeing it away from its owner nearly brought her to tears as she gently picked it up off the floor and held it in her palm.

_Take care of yourself, Y._

_I will,_ she said to herself, squeezing her eyes shut and closing her fist around the bronze eagle. _I promise._

**A/N:**

**[1] – The Dodge D-19 is a car from the early 1940's. You may have seen it in movies where important Nazi bosses or the Italian mafia or something start chasing the good guys in flashy black cars.**

**[2] – Since probably none of you speak Croatian, here's what Yugoslavia says in English: "Tito!" "Where are you, boy?" "There you are! Watched the house for me, did you?" (Of course, Tito is a dog.)**

**[3] – Yeah, Yugoslavia speaks Croatian a lot. Anyway, what she's saying here is, "Tito, no. England is my friend."**

**[4] – I'm sorry about this part, guys. I was writing this last night at 1:30 AM, so I apologize if it sucks. I already know it's OOC… Anyway, thanks for bearing with me.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Who wants to hear a story? Okay, originally, this was going to be part of chapter 11. I'd written it before I wrote the first section of chapter 11, so I didn't know how long that first part was going to be… Let's just say that I decided to do this once the word count hit 3,000. Anyway, enjoy this (uncharacteristically short) chapter!**

**Chapter 12**

_Something was definitely not right about this place._

_She didn't exactly know how she got here, or how long ago, and that in itself was unnerving. It had happened so many times recently, and she was beginning to sense a pattern: wake up, look around, something bad happens, mortal terror. She prayed that this would be the time when the pattern would be broken._

_Her vision was fuzzy, so she could not see every detail of the room. Everything was so dark that she was surprised that she could see in the first place; the room was hemmed on three sides with mud-caked stone, and a set of iron bars spanned the fourth wall, looking suspiciously prison-like. The floor was made of the same stone as the walls and somehow managed to be even dirtier, with dust and several other breeds of filth mixing together to form a thick, disgusting carpet. An eerie silence floated through the dry, stale air, broken only by the distant call of a passing crow._

_Fighting back a sudden feeling of déjà vu, she couldn't help but wonder what would become of her or her cellmate – only when the thought came did she noticed the young man sitting near her, his back to the wall, staring up at the ceiling with a wistful gaze. His eyebrows were like slivers of coal in contrast to the bright blonde of his hair. "Germany can't keep me in here," he murmured confidently to himself, trying to let off an air of tenacity with his statement. "I'll just get out again and be over with this!" But the fear and hurt under his words was painfully obvious to her, and she silently wondered what agony could have caused him to simply give up on himself like this. She considered giving him a few words of encouragement to try to lift up his dampened spirits – _

"– _thought I told you two to talk to me before you try anything like this!"_

_The voice was harsh and intimidating, sounding even more so than usual when accompanied by the sudden slam of a heavy iron door and footsteps set at an angry pace. At any other moment, she would have been able to remember who the voice belonged to; she knew it sounded vaguely familiar at the moment, but in her current confused state of mind, she couldn't seem to put a name to it. _

"_Alright, let's see who we've got here…" The voice came again, louder this time, tinged with a German accent that grated against her hears like sandpaper. A shadow crossed over the barred portion of wall as the figure stood there, watching the prisoners with a hawk's eye. His face was hidden from sight, the faint light behind him obscuring it in darkness. He shook his head. "Of course it's you again," he commented with a scornful glance toward the blonde man. "I was hoping you wouldn't come back. Get up."_

_Paralyzed with what she could only assume was shock, she watched with horror as her friend subserviently obeyed the German and shakily stood, plodding through the now open cell door in defeat. The German led him away from the cell and into the depths of the corridor beyond, turning a corner and leaving her alone with her thoughts._

_Not even a minute later, the sound of a gunshot pierced her ears and heart like a knife of frozen steel._

"_England!" she cried, feeling the cool sting of tears welling up in her eyes. She had been silent before, but could not manage it any longer; her single word released all of the pent-up fear and grief that had accumulated in a matter of minutes. _

_The German man didn't seem to notice the cry, however, as he tromped back up the corridor toward the cell. He was partially bent over something at his side, something that looked suspiciously like a pistol being stuffed into its holster. "That takes care of him," he murmured dismissively, regaining his straight posture and staring down at the second prisoner before him. Even though his face was still shrouded in shadows, she could now see his eyes: ice blue, cold, deathly._

"_Get up," he said, a strange glint passing in front of his eyes. He kneeled down and stared at her face-to-face, an icy hatred covering his words. "There is no point in resisting. Your country now belongs to the __Großdeutsches Reich__, and there is nothing that you can do about it. Now, get up. We need to talk." _**[1]**

"_Talk?" She even surprised herself with her outburst, but didn't give herself time to think about it. "Do you mean like how you 'talked' with England just now?"_

_The German didn't answer the question, his hand hovering dangerously over the pistol. "Since you are now an Axis territory, you are to do what you are told and not ask any questions. You may retain some of your freedoms, but you must follow all orders and instructions to the letter, or else you will get hurt._

"_I do not want to have to hurt you, Jugoslawien."_

Yugoslavia bolted upright when she awoke, a stagnant scream dying in her throat. The world around her was surprisingly clear to her: the stark-white walls, the gray tile flooring, the small red star emblem on the pillow that had previously been under her head, the faint scent of sweet breads and river water in the air. This was all familiar to her, but it didn't help ease the increasing feeling of dread in her chest. She could feel herself tremble under the warm embrace of the bed's comforter; even though the horrid nightmare was gone, she could still see the German's eyes locked onto hers, hear her country's name spoken in his own tongue, feel the frigid anxiety running through her veins…

Silence.

It was strange, but somehow she expected someone to intervene, to come to her just at her time of need. However, the room was just as quiet as before, the only difference a slight stirring at the foot of the bed. She snapped out of her fearful daze to see a large, furry lump lying beside her, staring back at her with an intelligent brown gaze that seemed to ask, "What's the problem?" The lump stretched, then scooted across the bed and placed its head contentedly on Yugoslavia's shoulder.

Yugoslavia couldn't help but crack a smile, scratching the dog between the ears. "_Hvala vam_, Tito," she said quietly. "It is a good thing you are here for me." Her mind wandered to England and how he was who-knows-where in Greece with America, doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who_. He said he would be okay,_ she told herself, trying to reassure her fear-weakened mind. _He will be at __Évian-les-Bains__ for the meeting__, I am sure of it. …I just hope that nothing bad happens to him. If anything were to happen… to him… I think I…I would…_ The words died away as she drifted off to sleep, Tito nuzzling her face, the sound of her own racing heart in her ears. **[2] [3]**

The sound of distant gunfire pricked the air as a wordless message of the hardships beyond the house's walls.

**A/N:**

**[1] – **_**Großdeutsches Reich**_** means "Greater German Reich" in, well, German. Basically, it's Nazi Germany at the time of World War 2.  
[2] – **_**Hvala vam**_** is Croatian for ****"thank you."**

**[3] – The whole thing with the meeting is a plot (flying mint) bunny that came to me toward the beginning of this fanfic. I'll tell you more about it in the next chapter.**

**Yeah, a second installment of the Evil!Germany nightmare. And yes, that's a thing now. :)**

**EDIT: Okay, so I've almost finished chapter 13 by now, but I have a little bit of news. I've recently been writing a plot bunny fic that somehow spawned from a plot bunny one-shot… So I probably won't get the Hetalia Christmas party fic done within the month. Sorry about that. But on the bright side, there are only a few more chapters left to this fic, so I can get to it sooner! (On the inside, I silently wonder if anyone really reads these…) Hasta la pasta~!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I hope none of you are superstitious, because today, we're going to witness a sighting of the elusive…Canada! Haha, just kidding. In fact, this chapter came to me one day while working on one of the first chapters of **_**Yugoslavia**_**. It's been on my mind since then, so I'm going through with it!  
By the way, this chapter is dedicated to my friend Millie, who I just found out has actually been reading this! (Just remember, Millie: I'm expecting a review from you. Seriously.)**

**Chapter 13**

_The rain was pouring harder than he had ever known. The streets were empty, water running around the cobblestones in rivulets from the oncoming downpour. A crescent moon shone weak light over the scene, veiled by a thick shroud of blackened clouds. Of course, his attention was not on the scenery – or lack of it – around him. Instead, he had his eyes turned toward the sea, toward the empty expanse of navy-blue water that occasionally sent a stinging spray in his eyes. He was watching for something, waiting for the right time to come. He couldn't afford to be late again._

_Another wave struck the bottom of the dock edge that he was standing at and threw another gallon of sea water into his face, momentarily obstructing his view of nothing in particular. But then, the nothing became something: a light, sitting on the horizon, glaring back at him with a harsh white glow. It disappeared not even a second after it made its presence, bringing the area back to darkness. But then it was back, again and again, blinking out a set of exact letters in what appeared to be Morse code to no one in particular._

_Darien Maxwell,__ the light said. __You made a terrible mistake._

The distant sound of chattering people brought Canada away from the torn pages of the novel in his hands, and he sighed with annoyance. He had been sitting at the conference table in the preassigned meeting hall in Évian-les-Bains, France for the better part of an hour, having arrived directly on time – or so he thought. So far, no one but himself had showed up, even France, and Canada was starting to have his doubts. "I could have sworn the announcement said 8 o'clock," he said to no one in particular, placing the book down on the table before him. He silenced his inner question of why he even borrowed the book from America in the first place.

In his lap, a small white bear twisted around so he could stare up at Canada's face, his small black eyes glinting with blank contempt. "Who are you?"

Canada sighed, patting the bear on the head in an attempt to familiarize himself with him. Not that it would work. "Kumajirou, why do you always ask that? I'm –"

"He is Canada."

Canada visually jumped at the sound of a new voice, not expecting anyone but himself (and Kumakachi) to be in the conference room. Pulling his gaze away from the bear, he looked up and saw a girl standing at the other side of the table, a sheaf of papers clutched tightly in her arms. She looked like she was in her early twenties, with dark blonde hair and aqua eyes that didn't seem to belong to such a quiet voice. Her dress was crimson-colored and fell just past her knees, decorated only with a blue belt around the waist adorned with a matching flower. Over all, she seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't seem to place her name.

"…Oh." Kumajirou's voice was the only thing that broke the almost-silence. He stared at the girl with his dark, almost glassy eyes. "If that guy's Canada, then who are _you_?"

The girl adjusted the papers in her hands and smiled lightly. "My name is Yugoslavia."

_Yugoslavia…?_ Now that he thought about it, Canada did remember the last few meetings he had attended, where everyone seemed to be yelling at one another except for a young woman in the corner who only seemed to write things down. In fact, she was being treated the same way that the other countries always treated him: like he didn't exist.

Yugoslavia seemed to notice Canada's passing emotions and glanced around the still empty conference room, her smile giving way to a slightly flustered expression. "…I was not interrupting anything, was I?"

Surprised by the sudden offhanded question, Canada shook his head and pushed back his inner thoughts. "No, I'm just waiting for everyone else. I think I got here a little early today."

"The invitation said 9 AM, stupid," Kumajirou commented, his words falling on deaf ears.

"Oh." Yugoslavia smiled a little wider, amusement flickering in her eyes. "That happens to me sometimes. At least we are here early."

Canada nudged Kumajirou out of the way. "That's true." He was about to say something else, but his gaze moved from his fellow country to something over her shoulder. "Uh, Yugosl –"

A pair of arms wrapped themselves around Yugoslavia's waist, pulling her back against the chest of their owner and tightly holding her there. She tensed up, not having the time to react to what was happening before she heard the voice as a whisper in her ear.

"_Ohonhonhon_~ So, you are here for the World Conference, non?"

"Uh…" Yugoslavia tried to pull away from the newcomer's grasp, but he only held her tighter. She was vaguely aware of Canada's averted gaze. "…Yes, that is why I am here."

"Of course it is, _mon cher_! Someone as beautiful as yourself would not be here simply to visit." Finally letting go of the female nation, he stepped back a little and revealed his identity to her; of course, it was France. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Tell me, _ma charmante_: are you a new country?"

Somehow, Yugoslavia couldn't seem to find his question very surprising. "…Actually, I have –"

"I knew it. There is no way I could have missed you if you have been here longer." France laughed again, letting off another creepy "_ohonhonhon_~" before speaking again. "My name is France. Of course, you may also call me Big Brother France… or if you prefer, _mon amour_…" He grinned devilishly, his grip around her shoulders tightening. "Why don't I show you around my home, eh, _mon beau lis_?"

Clutching her papers tighter to her chest, Yugoslavia forced herself not to run away from the meeting's host. She had seen France plenty of times before, and she honestly didn't hate him. But at times like this… well, he kind of creeped her out. "…Uh, I do not think we have time. The meeting is supposed to start any minute now…"

"_Ohonhonhon_~ You are adorable, my _européenne fleur_. Of course we have time. After all, there is always time when it comes to love…"

"What do you think you're doing, you bloody git?!"

Three gazes (including one previously ignored one) turned toward the main doors to the conference hall, where a certain angered Englishman stood with folded arms and a scornful glare toward the Frenchman. In the confusion of the moment, France didn't notice Yugoslavia slip out of his grasp and flee toward England.

England, meanwhile, took a few steps forward and stood protectively in front of Yugoslavia. "France, you bloody wanker! Don't you know that threatening to abuse people is not a good way of greeting them?!"

France seemed to be oblivious to any sign of wrongdoing; instead, he chuckled dismissively at the Brit. "_Angleterre_, I think I've mentioned to you that you need to be less defensive."

"Defensive? You're talking to me about being _defensive_?!" England balled his hands into fists and gave France a good whack to the jaw, thus continuing the tradition of the pre-meeting Anglo-French War.

This was the sight that the other countries saw as they entered the conference room and sat down around the table, some placing bets on who'd shed the most blood before they were interrupted. One of the nations who was not betting was Germany, who sat silently at one end of the table, waiting for the right moment to lash out. This was completely normal for him; it seemed like he was the only one who was able to successfully get the attention of everyone within the room, so it had become his "job" to make sure everyone was paying attention. He could feel his head start to pound from the consistent yelling and cursing that came from the feuding countries, so he stood in preparation…

…and stopped.

He watched with surprise as England, who had previously been repeatedly slapping France across the face, paused and glanced back at something that Germany could not see. With one final glare at his mortal enemy, the Brit threw France onto the ground and walked away, calmly taking his seat and rubbing his sore knuckles.

America stared at the ended fight and began laughing like a lunatic. "Dude, what happened? Did France hit your head too hard or somethin'?"

"I'm fine, you git," England hissed through gritted teeth, glancing at Yugoslavia, who sat quietly in the chair to his left. "Can we just get on with the meeting?"

Germany dropped his eyes down to the papers stacked in front of him before looking back up at the countries surrounding him. "…Well, as you all know, this meeting has been called by America to discuss a few very important war-related issues."

"That's right!" America stood this time, putting down the hamburger that had somehow appeared in his hand just after he had walked in. "Okay dudes, so we all know about the increasing number of Jewish refugees that have been coming into our countries, right? So –"

"Wait," China interrupted. "I thought this meeting was about the battles in the Pacific Ocean, aru!"

"I was told that we would be discussing the construction of the Iron Curtain. That will still be happening, da?"

"I thought there was-a going to be-a pasta!"

With that, the chitchat started again, and every single country started talking at once about some issue or another that they thought needed to be discussed. Of course, Canada and Yugoslavia were forced to listen in silence, not having any words themselves. Among the topics that were discussed – if one could call several countries yeling about a certain thing "discussing" – was the number of civilian casualties in a previous battle at some point in time. Yugoslavia could hear little more of the topic than _innocent_ and _taken_, but even those two words pricked at her heart like cold needles of dread. She felt a phantom pain in her lip, where the scar lay, and gazed morosely at her papers.

"Five hundred thousand."

Yugoslavia's voice cut through the idle arguments of the conference room and silenced the accompanying voices, causing everyone to turn toward the previously invisible nation in surprise and confusion.

Germany was the only one who did not seem phased by the sudden outburst. "…What?"

Yugoslavia briefly looked up from the papers in her hands and scanned the countries sitting around her, pausing when she reached Germany. Her gaze grew cold. "Five hundred thousand. That is how many civilians from my country were killed during the recent German and Italian attacks and occupations." She looked at the Allies now, her eyes resting on each of the five in turn. America looked especially shocked at the news. "I do not understand why we are all fighting in the first place. What in the world could possibly be worth taking the lives of so many innocent people? Has this all just spawned from a petty argument that no one here could possibly remember? Are we only trying to gain new territories so that we can expand our countries even more? None of that really matters, if you think about it." She pressed her palm against the table, the same way Germany often did, to emphasize her point. "This war is tearing our countries apart, in more ways than one. Do none of you think that we should be trying to make amends instead? Why can we not resolve our problems without killing? Is it really necessary to kill people at all, whether for religious purposes –" She purposefully avoided Germany's now-furious gaze. "– or simply to see whose army is more powerful? We can not go on like this forever, arguing about everything under the sun when there are more important matters to attend to. My country has already suffered enough, and so have several of yours. We all need to take a moment to think about our actions – past, present, and future – before we can continue with any of this war business."

A strange silence fell between the countries as Yugoslavia ended her speech and looked down awkwardly at her papers, well aware of the surprised, confused, contemplative stares boring into her. She could almost see her fellow countries exchanging uncomfortable glances with their allies and enemies, riddled with wordless replies and comments.

Italy was the one who finally broke the silence. "…That sounds like-a something I heard out of a book-a one time…"

"Dude, no way! That's totally from one of my movies!" America grinned stupidly in that way that only he could accomplish.

"Oh shut up, you bloody git! There's no way that could've come from you!"

"You're all wrong, aru! It's obvious that such a bold statement came from me!"

"_Ohonhonhon_~ I beg to differ!"

Yugoslavia sighed, staring down at her notes as the other countries erupted in arguments around her. She shouldn't have been surprised – they always acted like this, no matter what – but there was something about the ending, something about finally being heard and speaking her mind to her listening international neighbors, that gave her the smallest shred of hope.

Focused on the papers and trying to avoid involvement in the petty rivalries around her, she didn't notice someone stand and walk around the table toward her until a hand touched her shoulder. She turned her head to see Canada standing behind her, smiling kindly, Kuma left sitting in his chair. "I liked your speech," he said quietly, his voice somehow hovering above the din of the conference. "I've been thinking the same things recently."

Yugoslavia glanced shyly down at the ground before bringing her eyes back up to the quiet Canadian. "Thank you. I… I am usually not one to speak," she admitted, "but I am glad that I got my point across to someone."

"…We have a lot in common," Canada remarked, after ducking out of the path of a flying fork that was thrown from the direction of the England-France feud. "No one ever listens to either of us, and half of the time when they see us, they think we're someone else. …And it seems like we have the most maturity of everyone here," he added after taking another look around the room.

"That might be true," Yugoslavia responded with a slight shrug. "At least we have actually been trying to listen and say something serious instead of arguing."

Canada nodded. "…Yugoslavia? I know this is a serious meeting and everything, but… Well, would you like to be friends, eh? Since we're both alone and all, we can at least be alone together…"

Giving him another soft smile, Yugoslavia nodded, shaking the Canadian's hand in a silent pact of steel. "I would like that."

**A/N: Ugh, I don't like writing for France. Why does he have to be so perverted? (Well, he is France… Sorry in advance to any France fangirls out there.) Sorry I didn't update earlier this week or last week. I had a bit of a writer's block last week (which caused me to start another story…grr) and I was feeling bad for most of this weekend. Migraine. I also apologize for all of the French. I don't want to go back and look it all up again, but I'll say that **_**mon amour**_** means "my love." Hasta la pasta~!**


	14. History Moment 3! (also known as Ch 14)

**Chapter Fourteen**

_Hello again! It's your favorite non-canon partially-insane history-butchering narrator, Random-san! I'm here to bring you yet another Hetalia History Moment so that you can still tell your parents/boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/friends/whoever that your possible obsession with fanfictions such as this actually serves a purpose in your life!_

_In July 1938, barely a year before World War Two began, a meeting was held in the city of Évian-les-Bains, France, at the initiative of American president Franklin D. Roosevelt. A total of 32 countries (and 39 private organizations) sent representatives to partake in this meeting, whose main focus was on __increasing numbers of Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi persecution. This meeting was called the __Évian Conference. Despite the fact that the meeting lasted eight days, in the end there was really no change in plans at all. Britain and America refused to take in any larger amount of Jews than they already were, and most of the other countries at the conference followed suit, leaving Nazi Germany to go through with Hitler's "Final Solution" and giving the German and Austrian Jews with nowhere to go. As Wikipedia says, t__he conference was seen by some as "an exercise in Anglo-American collaborative hypocrisy."__**[1]**_

_The World Conference/World Meeting in the last chapter is actually based largely on the situation of the Évian Conference, especially in the sense that no one knew exactly what was going on and no one actually agreed with each other about anything. …Of course, this World Meeting took place in 1941, and neither Yugoslavia nor Germany actually attended, but who cares? It's Hetalia. I bet none of you are even reading this anyway._

**[1] ****Ronnie S. Landau (2006).**_**The Nazi Holocaust**_**. I. . pp. 137–140.****ISBN 978-1-84511-201-1****. Retrieved 24 March 2011****. (Reference from Wikipedia's ****Évian Conference page.)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Warning: minor Spanish, arrogance, and OOC-ness due to Angry!Serious!America.**

**Chapter 15**

A warm pre-summer wind danced through the thick woodlands of northern Greece, playing music in the rustle of the leaves. To any outsiders, this peaceful oasis within the surrounding war zones was simply abandoned, left for any troops – Allies or Axis – to take control of to add a little onto their shifting borders. Of course, those outsiders would not have marched through the thick undergrowth for half an hour, skirted the bottom of the mountain for another half an hour, and followed the free-flowing spring as far down as it would take them. If they had, they would have discovered the cluster of tan-colored tents squeezed into an open stretch of grass, between which flew two flags from separate flagpoles: the Union Jack, and the Stars and Stripes.

The joint English-American camp was not that impressive to begin with. The tents were suitable for living in, yes. But several empty crates and other bits of junk lay scattered across the ground in every direction, and the camp was crowded with soldiers of both nationalities, making the space seemed even more cramped than it already was. Everyone was always busy doing something or another, and this was one of those moments; men were rushing this way and that collecting things in preparation for an upcoming battle, toting backpacks and rifles as they ran around the camp. Two other men watched this from the safety of one tent's doorway, speaking quietly to each other about their plan of attack. …Well, one was talking quietly. The other kept humming some stupid song that his colleague suspected was from some sort of American military comedy-drama program.

"The Italians have been coming in from the Mediterranean," the serious one was saying, his arms folded over his chest peevishly, "and the Germans from the – Bloody hell, America! Can't you listen for one minute?"

Pausing from his musical daydreaming, America laughed loudly, causing several soldiers around them to start staring. "'Course I was, England! You were saying that…" Suddenly, the obnoxious American went silent, one of the characteristics of the Apocalypse yet to come.

England scoffed at the younger nation. "You weren't even listening to me, were –"

"Shut up," America hissed through gritted teeth, scanning the thick greenery surrounding the camp as if he was looking for a missing hamburger stash. Quieter, he added, "I thought I heard something."

With an annoyed glare at America, England followed his gaze and listened carefully for whatever sound he had been possibly hearing. He was rewarded by the chirps of birds in the trees, more rustling of leaves shaken by the wind, and a small crack of a large… something disturbing the underbrush.

"There it is again!" Despite his whispering, America still spoke loud enough to earn some glances. "Dude, it might be an enemy spy! The shrub is a spy," he added to no one in particular, chuckling at the look on the Brit's face as he made his subtle reference. **[1]**

England rolled his eyes at the immature American as he glanced back in the direction of the thing that was making noise. "There's no way that's an enemy spy, you git. If it was, don't you think they would be a little _quieter_?"

His question was answered by a sudden crash, as if someone had just fallen face-first into the ground, and a whisper of a word barely audible above the wind.

America felt himself take several defensive steps forward, waving off the soldiers that had started to rush to his aid. He slowly approached the person, his eyes firmly set on the place where the crash had been. "Hey you!"

"_Raspršeni_!"

The sudden order split the half-silence of the Greek woodlands, and several figures appeared around the camp and took off running in different directions. One particular figure, one who had appeared in the direction that the order came, caught America's eye. He couldn't see them very well through the trees, but he didn't need to. He grabbed a rifle from one of the soldiers behind him and dashed after the figure, holding it to his cheek and trying to steady it as he ran. He managed to fire a single shot in their direction.

The sound of the bullet slicing the air caused the figure to stumble, and they had to pause for a split second to regain their footing before continuing their mad dash to potential safety.

"Get back here!" America didn't take notice of anything but the path before him as he let out another shot, watching with satisfaction as the projectile splintered the bark of a tree that the figure was just passing. He saw them duck down and cover their head with their arms, landing with a soft _thud_ on the leaf-carpeted ground. The side cap that had previously been on their head fell gently against a thorn bush beside them. They dried to scramble back to their feet, but when they looked up, a very ticked off America was standing above them.

"What are you doing here?" America demanded, grabbing the offending soldier by the collar and pulling them up so that they were face to face. He took a moment to look their uniform over: a standard olive-green jacket and pants, a white shirt underneath, a brown belt with a pistol holster and a few other pockets attached. It didn't look German, as far as he could tell, but he definitely didn't like the looks of it. That was when he noticed the tight bun of dark blonde hair that had been hiding under the cap, and the annoyingly familiar blue-green gaze that stared back at him with boldness and fear. The thought suddenly occurred to him that this was a _she_, not a he, and that there was a strange-shaped scar on her bottom lip accompanied by fresher assorted scratches and scrapes. But at the moment, he didn't care. "I asked you a question!"

"_Smrt fašizmu_," she hissed, her words filled with ice and a raw defiance that secretly shook America to the core, "_sloboda narodu_!" **[2]**

"_English_," America retorted, as if he really expected a foreign soldier to speak the language of his home country. (The sad part was, that was exactly what he expected.) "I don't speak your Russian-whatever! …_Habla Inglés_!" **[3]**

"America!"

America hadn't heard the footsteps following close behind him, and only noticed them when he heard England's voice behind him. They grew slightly louder, then stopped. "Who did you…? Yugoslavia?"

The female soldier's eyes flitted from America's to somewhere beyond his shoulder, brightening slightly with recognition. "England?" Her voice was soft, yet held a scary seriousness that made America think twice about her.

America glanced back at the serious Brit, surprise obvious in his voice. "Dude, you _know_ her?"

"Yes." England wasted no time in answering his comrade and forcing past him; America was sure he had seen something flicker in his emerald-green eyes. "Let her go."

In stubborn obedience, America loosened his grasp on Yugoslavia's collar, causing her to land on her back on the ground. She murmured something inaudible under her breath, accepting England's help off the ground and rising to her feet before dusting off her jacket. She picked her hat off of the thorn it was currently stuck to and placed it on her head, its simple red star displayed proudly on the front.

"Yugoslavia, what are you doing here?" It was England's turn to ask the questions, standing in front of America to keep the younger nation from potentially hurting someone. Before he knew what he wad doing, he had wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. "I thought you were neutral…"

Yugoslavia hugged him back, but pulled away quickly when she noticed the awkward look that America was giving them. "I am supposed to be neutral," she answered, lowering her head dismally. "Germany and the other Axis powers have split up my country between themselves. Fighting back is the only way to make my country one again." She briefly glanced over her shoulder, in the general direction of the other fleeing soldiers, and shouted, "_Partizani, povratak! Mi smo među prijateljima!_ We are among friends."

America tilted his head to the side, his angered expression morphing into one of confusion. "So those other guys were your buddies?"

"They are members of my patrol, yes." Yugoslavia's hand rested on her hip, where the gun holster hung on her belt. "I –"

His eyes widening slightly, America held up his hands, forgetting that he was holding a rifle in one of them. "Woah, chill out, dude! I wasn't trying to kill you or anything!"

Yugoslavia's eyes narrowed in confusion, and she glanced down to see what he was blabbering about. "Oh, I do not have a pistol with me," she said with a completely serious tone, "but I do have three grenades and a sniper rifle that I left at the camp."

America's mouth hung open, his only thought at the moment being, _does this chick seem crazy to anyone else right now?_ In response to this, Yugoslavia stammered, "Of course, those were given to me by Cousin Russia. I-I do not think I would ever get them myself…"

_Cousin Russia?_ America closed his mouth. _That explains it._

Giving the American a sharp glare, England turned his gaze back to his friend. "Y, what were you telling us before you were… _interrupted_?"

Yugoslavia knitted her fingers together behind her. "…I was saying that those were members of my patrol, and that I am sorry if we frightened you. We have a camp nearby, just north of the Greek border, and we were trying to figure out whether or not this was a German camp. We do not want to be near them, because they will take us all prisoner if they find us, so we had to send out a scouting patrol to check the area. …Captain Nespretan was being a little clumsy."

England motioned toward the camp, and the three starting walking through the trees toward it, skirting the rocks of the near-dry spring. "How many more of you are there?"

Yugoslavia had to think to answer the next question, waving over a few of her fellow Yugoslavs when they appeared. "I do not know how many are in our division, but there are at least six hundred thousand of us in total, and that number is increasing every day. We all want to see our country united again."

"Six hundred thousand?" America let out a laugh. "That's nothing! We've got over a million fighting for the good ol' US of A!"

England returned to his previous task of glaring at the other nation. "Showoff."

During their exchange, a small cluster of soldiers had been created at Yugoslavia's right side, all wearing similar uniforms, talking amongst themselves in rapid Croatian. They stood uncomfortably at the edge of the camp, constantly glancing at the passing American or British soldiers as if they expected someone to chase them with rifles (again). Smiling softly at her comrades, Yugoslavia walked over to them and joined in the conversation. "_Jesu li svi dobro_?" Is everyone okay?

One particular man at the side went rigid at the sound of his commanding officer's quiet voice, and he started nervously wringing his hat in his hands. This happened to be the man responsible for the crashing noise that had given away their positions – Captain Nespretan. "_Žao mi je, pukovnik. Ja… Nisam gledao gdje sam bio idući. Mogao sam stečen nas ubio_!" I'm sorry, Lieutenant Colonel. I... I was not watching where I was going. I could have gotten us killed!

Yugoslavia took another look at Nespretan. He was in his late twenties, with dark brown hair and surprisingly clear green eyes. Despite his age, he always seemed nervous when the time for battle came because of his inexperience. But in the end, he always managed to do the right thing. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "_Nemojte početi brinuti, kapetane. Ovo je saveznički logor, tako da smo sigurni ovdje. Ali, molim vas biti oprezniji u budućnosti_." Do not start worrying, Captain. This is an Allied camp, so we are safe here. But please be more careful in the future.

Nespretan nodded, not knowing that Yugoslavia could hear his sigh of relief. "_Da gospođo_." Yes ma'am.

"Yugoslavia!"

She turned her head away from her patrol and saw England standing at the entrance of one of the tents, waving her over. After offering a quick _oprostite_ to them, she slipped away and following him into the shelter of the tent.

"I contacted my boss just now," England started, gesturing to a pair of chairs in the center of the room. Yugoslavia sat down in one, and he followed suit. "He said that he and your boss – the Marshal, I believe he called him – have met recently, and were already planning some sort of agreement between our countries. Now that he's heard about what happened, he said that there definitely will be."

Yugoslavia smiled softly, acknowledging his words with a tiny nod. "That is good. I had only heard rumors about the agreement – I never know about anything until the paperwork comes in," she added with a shrug.

"I know how that feels," England chuckled. "Does your patrol need a place to stay? It is getting late, and I'm not sure how far your camp is from here."

"No thank you, we can walk there."

For the second time in one day, England leaned over and embraced her, not caring who may have been watching at the moment. He felt her head rest against his shoulder, listening to the conversation going on outside as America joined the Yugoslav patrol.

"…Hi! Since you guys probably don't know me, I'm America!"

Silence. "... _Da li je samo reći njegovo ime je Amerika_?" "_Je li on kao potpukovnika? Je li on samo predstavlja Ameriku?"_ "_Tko zna_?"

"Uh, don't you guys speak English? Anyone? …_ Habla Inglés_?"

Another silence. "_Se bilo tko znati što on govori_?" "_Mislim da je lud_." "_To bi objasnilo slučajni hamburger_..."

"Woah, what did you say about my hamburger? Stay away from it! It's mine!"

Yugoslavia snickered quietly under England's arms "They think that America is insane."

"So do I." England relished the sound of her laughter, no matter how hushed it was. "I'll be here if you need anything, Y. Say the word and I can help."

"Thank you. I do not have much to offer in return, but…" Yugoslavia sat up in her chair, offering him a standard military salute. Outside of the tent, her patrol had snapped to attention and caused the annoyed American to follow their gaze as well.

"…Yugoslav Partisans, at your service."

-x-

_And thus begins a new phase within the desolate time period that we know as World War Two. Don't you just love happy, semi-violent endings? (Heck, who doesn't?)Well, that also means that this story is over. Darn. But don't you worry, I'm sure to come out with other awesome fanfics inspired by the warped history of Hetalia that involve everyone's favorite forgotten nation! And no, I'm not talking about Canadia. I'll see you all in the history books! ~Random-san_

**PS, please read the following very carefully.**_  
_**Letter of Misfortune: If you read this letter, you have 3 days to send this fanfic to 3 other people. If you don't, your capitol will become Warsaw. Courtesy of Anonymous; Warsaw, Poland.**

_Curse you, Poland!1! Why do you feel the need to hijack my story ending, huh?_

**This isn't Poland. You're only, like, telling that to yourself so that your readers won't, like, think you're totally insane or whatever. Besides, I enjoy hijacking. :)**

_I'm not insane! …I've already been there and back. Just leave my stories alone, person-who-is-not-Poland._

'**Kay.**

**A/N:**

**[1] – I love you if you get this reference.**

**[2] – **_**Smrt fašizmu**_**, **_**sloboda narodu**_** is Serbo-Croatian for the phrase, "****Death to fascism, freedom to the people." Google it once you finish this chapter, and you'll understand its significance. (Seriously, it has its own Wikipedia page. I suggest you look at it.)**

**[3] – This is based off of an ongoing joke I've heard about Americans and people who don't speak English. Apparently, whenever an American starts talking to someone and the person they're talking to doesn't speak English, the American will automatically start trying to speak Spanish. (I have witnessed this several times before, in fact. It's hilarious watching the peoples' faces when it happens.)**


End file.
